Devour
by Miss Savvy
Summary: "Compassion and cruelty can live side-by-side in one heart." Rated for some darker themes. Eventual Hannibal/OC & subtle hints at hannigram.
1. Chapter 1

The light was harsh. It caused a burning sensation to flicker across the exposed skin of her pale shoulders. Her heels were modest and complimented her casual attire, though they still clicked as resoundingly upon the pavement as a pair of stilettos would have when she moved. The audible steps were swift in succession as her pace quickened in an attempt to avoid the blaze of overhead sunlight. Admittedly, it was a scotching afternoon - though the fever that lingered over her was not entirely due to the torrid weather as she approached the police station.

The red headed woman had desperately tried to displace the growing feeling of dread in her psyche as the months passed by without a word. But the disappearance of her only daughter had sent her into a spiraling world of turmoil.

As a single mother, she had always prided herself on the accomplishments of her child. The young girl had been exceptionally kind hearted, charming, and trusting – all attributes she had managed to conjure for herself despite the rather strict guidance of a strong-willed and worrisome mother. The girl had never gone astray from set standards and ideally she was what many parents would have defined as the perfect child. It was this reason that made her disappearance all the more unreal. Something so inconceivably terrible_ couldn't_ just happen to a young and innocent woman like her.

For Scarlett, it seemed a cruel fate for the sole source of light in her life to be snatched away from her. The unsettling feeling of never seeing her daughter again developed into one of morbid grief after receiving a call from Jack Crawford that morning.

_Her daughter had been found._

The agent had said it over the phone line in tone that repressed any flicker of hope from emerging. Hope had always been there prior to the phone call. Not knowing where he daughter could have been was indeed horrific, but knowing that her daughter was positively dead slayed all the hope she harbored. She had tried to keep her composure as well as could be expected from her, whispering only a mere _"thank you"_ after agreeing to meet with the FBI agent later on in the day.

_Thank you, for extinguishing all hope. _

She had not been able to stop crying that morning though her sobs were inaudible after an hour. Even up until the point that she had pulled into the driveway of the station, silent tears spilled from her eyes. She rubbed the wet patches away with her forefingers, knowing the makeup she had applied just before leaving her empty home had gone all to hell.

Unpainted lips were red as the hue of her clouded eyes as she stepped into the building. She kept biting her lower one, the ache she inflicted upon it noticeable to all around with its swollen appearance. After receiving a sympathetic smile from a woman stationing the front desk, she had resigned to waiting outside of the directed office in an uncomfortable, straight back chair that lingered a few feet away from the door.

Green eyes diverted, attentive only to the hands that rested upon her lap. The gruff sound of a voice clearing brought her attention upwards once more.

"Ms. Sage?"

Swallowing down the dryness in her throat, she stood abruptly and feigned an attempt at a calm demeanor before extending her hand outwards.

"Hello, Agent Crawford. It's nice to see you once more," she managed, though the breathy reply was shaky.

Crawford took her singular hand in both of his own in consolation. "I'm sorry we're meeting under these circumstances. I understand how difficult this is for you… how difficult this is still going to get."

With a subtle nod of her head, Jack released her hands. "It is difficult… I'll get through it."

"Please, come with me," he insisted.

Scarlett followed him, taking in the repetitive windows and doors that framed each individual office as the pair passed by. A turn followed by another turn only revealed more of the same. The building was large but hardly intricate.

An elevator was eventually approached. Jack gestured for her to enter before he followed suit. The older man pressed the_ A2_ button down firmly, causing it to light up like the bulb of Christmas tree. On exit, the woman saw a vast difference in the interior design of the building – not to mention the rapid decrease in temperature. She was certain they now walked along the floors of the basement.

Jack glanced over to her, taking in the change in her façade. He also noticed the continuous way she bit upon her swollen lip, though he was hesitant to tell the woman before him to stop.

"This is where the majority of the staff of our research and medical department reside," he uttered in an attempt to refocus her attention.

"... That's interesting."

Scarlett spoke with little emotion before she shuddered lightly at the chill temperature, particularly after having come from such an arid and sweltering hot parking lo. The straps of her blouse did little to keep her warm. Jack perceived the slight twitch and gave her a worried look. She looked at him dismissively.

"Just a little cold, that's all," she explained quickly. She halted as his form came to a stop, tearing her eyes from the agent and to the door they now were before.

"Ms. Sage, identifying your daughter is going to be difficult enough for you… If you need a moment alone or – "

She cut him off as she turned back at him, a slight frown on her features, "Mr. Crawford, I've had a _'moment alone'_ for the past six months," she hesitated a bit, noticing his grimace before adding, "I would like to see Julie."

The man looked as though he were about to reply but decidedly closed his mouth as he turned to the door. Grasping the metal handle, he pushed it open to reveal a cold interior filled with linoleum and metallic facets.

The body in the middle of the room was adorned with a white cloth.

Jack approached the table, rounding it so that he stood on the opposite side of the mother. He noticed her gaze was set in stone at the unmoving figure before them both as he placed his hands on the delicate white fabric that sheltered the victim. Pulling it back gently, the face and spilling crimson locks of the young woman came into view – the pale alabaster color her skin had taken earned a vocalized choke from the mother as she controlled the upcoming sob.

It was the only response she allowed before she silenced herself, remaining quiet for what felt like decades before uttering, "Yes, that's Julie."

She heard the definite sound of a scratching pencil upon paper as he wrote something down on a chart before him. She could imagine the headline of it.

_Julianne Sage. Age: 17. Height: 5'4" …_

"Have you… have you done an autopsy on her yet?"

Jack nodded once more, briefly. There was a strange look of hesitance hidden in his look, as if the results were some sort of secret he wouldn't be permitted to spill.

She pursued, licking her swollen lip, "Did she suffer?"

"… We have reason to believe your daughter was sedated at the time of her death. It's _possible_ she didn't feel anything," the agent conveyed in a low voice.

The few lines that crossed Scarlett's forehead creased as she tilted her head in confusion, "Sedated?"

"A type of barbiturate - or sedative - was picked up through the toxicology portion of the autopsy."

"That's… why would they do that to her?" she felt her chest rise and fall, "_What_ did they do to her?"

The older agent grimaced a bit, straightening up his posture as he did so.

"The killer removed her organs – lungs and liver. We suspect he wanted to remove the organs while they were still – "

Jack exhaled heavily before tacking on the grisly word, " – _fresh_."

Her mouth hung open in slight horror at the prospect, a frail hand now held up to her chest as she fought to stay in control of the situation.

"Then she was still alive..." her trembling voice pointed out.

"Our suspect is a cannibal. We've linked him to several more cases – one of our top priorities. We _are_ going to find this guy," his final claim was strong.

Determined.

Scarlett glanced down at her daughter once more, feeling a pounding in her chest as she did so. She felt as though she would be sick, and so she turned away with a shuddering breath and looked towards the door.

"I have to go, Agent Crawford."

Hearing the rustling of a sheet in the back of her mind, she assumed the man covered Julie. They left her behind soon after.

As she took collected steps down the hallways she could not help but feel a mixture of angst, disgust, and sorrow. She had been told closure was something she'd find relief in. Scarlett felt nothing of the sort.

"Ms. Sage. If you need to talk to anyone, please give me a call. This is a traumatic thing. It can take a serious toll on a person," the agent beckoned her once her heels were met with the lobby's flooring.

Looking at him with a forced smile, she did all that could to refrain from screaming in anguish right before him.

"I'll be fine. I promise – and thank you."

When Scarlett Sage disappeared from behind the doors of the headquarters' entrance, Jack Crawford could not help but feel a sense of concern at her falsified statement.

She turned the music up in her car to the absolute max the moment she hit the street once again. It did nothing to aid her headache, but that was far from her intention. She was able to scream. And she _did _scream. She screamed twenty city blocks before her strained throat went raw and she was able to pull into the driveway of her townhouse and into the garage. She grimaced once the vehicle was put into park, clicking a button overhead that made the giant garage door fall from the ceiling to the pavement of the floor.

Scarlett collected a ragged breath, leaning back in the seat that she reclined a few inches as she stared at the ceiling. The resounding sound of the music did not die down. She made no attempt to turn it off. The vibrations of the car started to soothe her. Lost in dismal thought, her eyes fluttered about before closing fully in an attempt to block out all of what seemed so desperately unreal. A demented sleep overtook her – she was unconsciously grinding her teeth and biting her lower lip even after swallowed by the darkness.

* * *

"Ms. Sage… _Scarlett_."

The familiar voice woke her with a groggy start. Her tired eyes took in the harsh light of the room when she began to blink. It was excessively bright and Scarlett turned her head to the side in an order to avoid it as she tried to adjust her vision. A moment or so passed before her blurry surroundings came into clarity, taking in the sitting form of Jack Crawford.

A low, repetitive _beeping_ noise soon hit her. She was in a hospital.

"What am I doing here?"

Her confused eyes widened a bit, shocked at the raspy sound her voice had made when she asked the question. Perhaps she should have controlled her screams.

Jack Crawford frowned, "You almost_ died_."

She shook her head lightly, feeling incredibly weak but far from that of death. Physically, at least. "No I didn't…"

"Yes, you did," he replied almost harshly, the look on his face was plagued with both worry and anger. She couldn't understand why and so her response was that of silence and a blank face. He sighed.

"You tried to kill yourself. If your neighbors hadn't called and complained about the noise from your car, you could've died from carbon monoxide poisoning. You were out cold when we found you."

She took in his claim before allowing herself to exhale heavily, "I wasn't trying to kill myself, Agent Crawford… I… I just fell asleep in the car. I was upset. I would never do something like that _intentionally_."

"Accidents like that don't happen often. You're a professor. I assume you know about the affects of harmful gas emissions – "

Shaking her head, she cut in "Of course! I was just…"

"Unstable," the man finished bluntly. She frowned.

"No. I'm _fine._ And I don't appreciate the accusatory tone," she reciprocated coldly.

Jack sat back in the chair, "Well I'm worried about you."

She propped herself up on her elbows, rising from her completely laid back position, before sighing. "You don't even know me."

He shrugged his broad shoulders lightly, "I can still be concerned – it's my responsibility to make sure you're okay knowing full well what you're dealing with."

She was silent.

"I'm recommending a psyche evaluation," he firmly stated.

Looking at the ceiling in an attempt to control her rolling eyes she huffed aloud, "Why? Because you think I'm suicidal?"

"No – because it'll benefit you. Anyone in your position would_ need_ to talk to someone. Though I admit this escapade is my reason for giving the consult to you, legally."

She sat up fully so that she was right in his line of sight. "Talking isn't going to help me. It'll just keep reminding me of it."

"I have to take the safe route with you," he contradicted her, standing so that her eyes were forced to look upwards.

"Right. So what happens if I _don't _go?"

Jack Crawford shrugged nonchalantly, "Well, I've got no problem with you staying here – I can have you moved to the psyche ward for next month or so," she looked a little shocked at his serious suggestion and he noticed. "But I feel that a one-on-one professional consult would be best."

She looked to the side in annoyance before stubbornly looking back at the agent, "When and where?"

Jack Crawford offered a sincere, minuscule smile before withdrawing a card from his pocket and extending it out to her. She took it with a slightly affected hand, turning the card over and reading the inscription upon it.

"Unfortunately, you have to stay here for another 36 hours under observation – it's a hospital rule. The following day you'll meet up with your new psychiatrist. The address is right on the card," he pointed out.

Scarlett sighed, "This is entirely unnecessary…"

He offered her another light smile, ignoring her comment, "Feel better soon, Ms. Sage. I'll be sure to catch up with you later on."

With that, he was out of the door in reply to her curt nod. She sent her eyes back to the card in hand. She rubbed her thumb along the raised ivory lettering of the words upon it half-heartedly before reading it aloud.

"_Hannibal Lecter, Doctor of Psychiatric Medicine."_

Flinging the card back to the end table beside her in distaste, she found herself lying down once more upon the uncomfortable twin mattress. She was not one for therapists, having instead lived a lifestyle of internal reflection. She just wanted to forget – displace the emotion as she had done for the past six months. Feeling another stray tear gracing her cheekbone, she felt contempt for having to be put through an ongoing charade of coping with the loss of her daughter. She didn't want it, and she didn't want this _doctor_ either.

* * *

Three days had passed.

Despite herself, she had shown up at the front door of a Victorian-like building. She'd assumed the psychiatric practice would take place in some droll hospital that smelt of sickness. But no. It was nestled between the suburbs and a forest; a picture-perfect scene. She wondered if the patients of this man ended up feeling better simply due to the scenery.

The halls were carpeted as she stalked through them in search of his office. It was particularly quiet there and she wondered just how many people comprised the practice. The silence was calming to her, at least. To others and perhaps at different times in the night, roaming the halls would have been a petrifying experience. Her two o'clock appointment sheltered her from such a fear, however.

A light murmuring was picked up by her ears before she rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a door. A glossy bronze lettering plagued it, stating only, "_Dr. Hannibal Lecter, PhD._"

Scarlett was hesitant to knock, having felt certain to have heard the light murmuring to have come from this doctor's office. Glancing at the watch upon her frail wrist she noted that it was only four minutes until two – she was content with the knowledge that she had indeed arrived on time.

Four precise minutes later of silence passed by as she stood with her unmade mind in solitude before the door opened, the releasing click of the handle's lock catching her attention.

A short man stepped out bidding some sort of teary goodbye before turning down the hallway in haste. Scarlett frowned at the distressed man, curious as to what was making him fall apart and why the man that now stood in the door frame alone appeared so inert to the occurrence.

He stood tall. His eyes were like steel as they tore from the retreating man's back and took to settling upon her. She felt a chilling rush hit her as those orbs connected with her own. She was unsure of the emotion they held.

"Ms. Sage, I presume?"

The accented voice was one of pure cultivation and civility, though it was also incredibly passive. For some reason it irked the proclaimed 'unstable' woman. Offering a slight nod of her head and letting the corner of her mouth turn up into a weak smile of compliance, she replied, "Yes. It's nice to meet you Doctor Lecter."

He offered her a curt, thin smile. She felt that it disappeared as soon as it came.

"Please, come in," he insisted, stepping back from the doorway while holding the oak open for her to pass through into. She did so, stepping into an office that rivaled anything her imagination could've conjured in terms of finery.

"Oh… Your office is beautiful," she managed, taking in the high rise of the ceilings and the bookshelves that adorned the high point of the wall. They were encased by a railed balcony.

"That is very kind of you. I feel it is important that my office reflect an atmosphere suitable for both myself and my patients," he commented, staring at her with unblinking eyes. Within a second he gestured to the two loungers that sat facing one another in the middle of the room.

"Please sit down, Ms. Sage. I've been looking forward to meeting you," he stressed the command as he took his place in the seat he had approached, watching her as she hesitantly settled into a chair as well.

"Looking forward to it?"

Pursing his lips, the psychiatrist sat forward a bit as he took in her demeanor with a calculating gaze.

"Yes… I work with Agent Crawford, at times. It is from him that I've heard you were less than enthusiastic upon realizing you were to come to this session."

Feeling slightly put on the spot at the accusation, Scarlett adjusted her posture and leaned against the arm of the spacious chair.

"It's not a personal attack, Doctor Lecter. I just don't think this sort of thing is necessary."

"And are you a doctor, Ms. Sage?"

She faltered for a split-second, "_No_."

"Then perhaps you should adopt an open-mindedness to these sessions. They might certainly be much more beneficial to you than you realize," he explained in his collected accent, his delivery definitive.

Scarlett crossed her arms in slight agitation at his tone, "That's a matter of opinion, Doctor Lecter," she practiced hesitance before adding, "And I _have _made myself open-minded to this, by the way. I am here, does that count for anything?"

"You are here on the account of Jack Crawford, not yourself."

She fidgeted once more in annoyance in her seat, sending her gaze to the wooden floor panels.

"May I ask how old it is that you are, Ms. Sage?"

She gave him a quirky look as she looked at him, thrown off by his change in demeanor. He had relaxed himself somewhat in the chair he sat in, his hands pressed together in anticipation as he awaited her answer. Blinking once, she replied, "Thirty-Five."

"You are accomplished for a woman of your age," he noted, tipping his head at her and causing the redhead a rivet of unexpected shock at his compliment.

"Thank you," she spoke lightly.

"Considering you were a single mother, as Jack has led me to believe, that is particularly impressive," the doctor continued, a trace of genuine interest etched onto his face – elevated cheekbones that exaggerated the subtle smirk gave it away.

She shrugged it off, "I am not that impressive. I have been lucky."

Hannibal clicked his tongue, "You have to be one of the youngest women, let alone a single parent, to earn her PhD and obtain a position among the Ivy Leagues. Luck did not constitute the obtaining of your goals – at least not entirely."

"Working hard pays off, Doctor Lecter. I'm sure you know all about that," she mused, glancing around once more at the grand office. The man opposite her chuckled lightly.

"Indeed. That is a commonality we share, I think."

She feigned a smirk in reply, but it left her quickly, noticing the man's passive features once more taking over.

"... I assume you don't care for such successes."

"What do you mean?"

He took a moment before clarifying his statement. "You would give all that you have accomplished for the opportunity to erase what has happened to your daughter, would you not?"

Those words haunted her as they reached her ear.

"_Yes_," she steadily replied, swallowing down the dryness in her throat once more. She was surprised by his following point.

"That is where your fault lies, Ms. Sage. You must understand that what has happened, as unfortunate as it is, cannot be changed. Accepting that will relieve you of a great deal of unnecessary stress."

A frown took its toll on her, "I_ do_ understand. It's just… very - " she felt a tear fall, "- difficult. Unfair."

Hannibal appraised her lightly shaking demeanor with a calm eye before glancing over at the table beside him and collecting a tissue box. He extended the small cube to her and after a moment she took it and placed it on the table beside her chair, foregoing the use of tissue and merely using a finger to wipe away the wet stain on her cheek. Hannibal watched the movements intently.

"Life and death coincide as a singular enigma. The reasons behind them might never be understood by humans. It is unfair, yes, but it is also unfair to linger upon what cannot be altered, is it not?"

The woman continued to silently spill tears, much to her own surprise. She had been indefinite in her decision to not become emotional in this session out of pure spite of being forced to attend. But the idea of what happened to her only child was beginning to haunt her, much more so than her disappearance had ever managed.

"… Do you know what happened to Julie?" she asked quietly, eyes fixed upon her lap.

She heard his _"Hmm?"_ of inquisition as a reply.

"She was… murdered by a _cannibal," _she practically spat the word before continuing on, "… someone removed her organs while she was still alive – she was treated with more cruelty than an animal would have been."

Scarlett ran her hands over her eyes once more as she finished her statement, fighting away all water lines and leaving behind red blotches. She looked up at Hannibal, a man who appeared still calm and collected and virtually unmoved.

"… You feel as though the sanctity of your daughter's life was somehow degraded by this crime."

"Julie didn't deserve that," she whispered harshly.

"It can be difficult to assume the perspective of those responsible. Perhaps they felt justification in their actions, just like the justification you feel with your grief."

"That is _not_ the same... and ... I could never understand… I wouldn't _want_ to understand."

Hannibal raised his brows, "Why? Because it would be frightening?"

She released yet another shaky breath. "No. Because I'd prefer to remain sane. Isn't that what these sessions are for?"

Scarlett felt as though the temperature of the room dropped at the silence that followed the pair, for the relatively calm doctor seemed void of response at that moment. The grey-suited psychiatrist eased himself out of the chair, walking across the room until he met his desk. From the distance, Scarlett noticed him retrieve a glass of some sort, bringing the liquid contents of it to his lips. It was not long before he spoke aloud and over his shoulder, directing his words towards the wall in front of him rather than the disheveled redhead still perched in her seat.

"Indeed they are, Ms. Sage_._"

He had placed a thick emphasis on her surname, causing a shudder of unknown reason to course through the woman. The psychiatrist turned to face her, his cool gaze penetrating that of her green-eyed orbs as he added, " - though you might find it remarkable how often the two traits of madness and sanity coincide."


	2. Chapter 2

_"Eyes are distracting."_

* * *

A week had passed since their first session. By that time, Scarlett Sage had formed an opinion on her seemingly courtly psychiatrist. To put it shortly, she was _not_ too fond of him. And as the rest of that dreary hour long appointment carried on, the redhead was not inclined to believe that the good doctor was fond of _her_, either.

Doctor Lecter had respectively remained quaint throughout their meeting. A subtle smile had graced his thin lips, curling up every so often when she sputtered a sarcastic comment or gave away her discomfort by fidgeting in her chair. She found it disconcerting he would outwardly show a minor flicker of amusement, considering her reasons for being uncomfortable. She was also under the impression that a psychiatrist was supposed to alleviate her pain in a way that allowed her to cope under her own terms. This was not the case. Much to her surprise, her doctor seemed almost insistent that she rid herself of all emotion relative to Julie. Though that was an attempt she had planned to undergo on her own in the first place, it felt wrong coming from his lips. Weren't all psychiatrists trained with the intent of easing into transitions? Was it not a custom for these doctors to deal with the emotions of their patients as if they were as fragile as glass? Apparently not. He seemed to prove it.

Scarlett was no longer surprised by the man who had left the doctor's office in tears that past afternoon. It was now a self-explanatory occurrence.

Scarlett Sage sat perched at the breakfast bar of her kitchen, legs crossed over one another as they dangled from the stool. She sipped a cup of bland brew, her eyes glancing over at the clock upon the wall every now and again. She knew full well that only minutes remained before the small hand would be directly parallel to the 2nd hour.

Scarlett had no intention of keeping the second scheduled appointment with Dr. Hannibal Lecter that afternoon - much less any of the subsequent ones.

The nails of her right hand tapped upon the counter. The acrylics had worn down as she had decided to postpone her due manicure that week, instead opting to stay at home and review essays in her den. She held in her breath when she looked back at the clock, seeing it was nearly a minute passed two. Releasing it, she steadily took another sip from the coffee cup before her, though she nearly spilt the hot contents when a_ beeping_ rang through the room.

Feeling a sinking feeling in her gut at the prospect of answering the call, she approached the telephone hanging on her wall. Another deep breath and she picked up the receiver and brought it to the side of her face.

"Hello?"

There was a slight pause before a response was given.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Sage. This is Dr. Hannibal Lecter," the cultivated tone spoke through the phone line.

"Oh," she felt her lungs tighten at the sound of his voice, even though she was positive before she had even picked up the phone he'd be the one on the other end of the line. Still, she found his presence was just as strong even through that of a mobile conversation.

"Hello Doctor Lecter. How are you?"

"I am well. Of course, I cannot help but notice your absence from my office this afternoon. Our appointment was set for two, if you recall."

The voice was noticeably severe. It wasn't hard to gather that the man was irritated.

"How forgetful of me," she allowed herself to lie, adopting a tone as if she was unaware of her own nonattendance. She could hear the indication of a slight sigh on his end of the line.

"I sincerely doubt that forgetfulness has anything to do with you not being here," the tone accused – and it _did _sound annoyed. Scarlett could practically imagine the collected psychiatrist's fingers messaging his temple in frustration as he spoke.

"I'm also not feeling well."

"And how is your mental health faring, might I ask?"

She could groan – apparently enlightenment was essential

"… If it is of any interest to you I haven't been nearly as upset since our last visit. I'm not suicidal. I'm recovering just _fine_," she proclaimed.

"Ms. Sage, I find it imperative to remind you that your visits have been set up under the instruction of Jack Crawford. Despite the progress you believe you are making on your own, you are required to attend these sessions," the man put simply. She scoffed.

"I am under no obligation to subject myself to something I don't want to do, even if Jack Crawford is behind it."

"On the contrary, this consultation has been legalized. You may be subject to hospitalization or other legal matters should our schedule fall through," he countered coolly.

She felt herself frown and found herself uttering in disbelief, "What? Are you threatening me with that? You've met me – you can't believe there is anything truly wrong with me. If you're doing this because of Crawford…"

The man cut her off, which seemed an impolite measure for him to take. "My assistance to Agent Crawford is entirely voluntary, though it is my responsibility to make sure you are stable. It is my professional opinion that you attend."

"… Is it also your "professional opinion" that I'm crazy?"

A small bit of hesitance allowed static to flow through the receiver until the silken voice cut through it like a blade to butter once more, "Of course not. Though I do fear the dangers that follow a tragedy. You may be fine now – you might become catastrophic the day after."

Scarlett could not help but shake her head once more at the continued observation she seemed to be getting from those around her, "Yet another 'unstable' comment…" she muttered hatefully. "I can't believe it."

"Please do not take offense," the doctor ushered – his tone had softened a bit.

"Excusing an offense does not make it any less_ rude_," she chided, leaning against the wall that ran parallel to the hanging phone.

"Of course, but did you not brush off our appointment? That was terribly rude of you as well, Ms. Sage."

A small silence. "… Point taken."

She imagined one of his slight smiles graced his features at this instant. He replied to her in as warm a tone as he could gather, "I would very much like for us to continue our delayed appointment. Are you literally bed-ridden or would you be free to come into the city?"

"The city?" she repeated flatly.

"Yes. Something informal, if you wouldn't mind."

_Informal_ seemed a word that would be practically void of this man's vocabulary.

"I… guess not," she responded softly, though she looked down at her undone, slightly bitten fingernails with a glance of distaste, "Could I have a half an hour? I can meet you wherever."

"I will be waiting at the door outside of the Artisan at three o'clock," he informed her, "Please try not to be late once more."

She noted a light chuckle had escaped his lips, which she was relieved to hear. For a moment she was positive she'd detected an underlying truth in his statement, merging with a playful yet very real threat. She shook it off. _That_ would've been ridiculous.

* * *

The Artisan was not something she would have defined as a casual restaurant, but it was a café void of the typical maitre d' and waiting list that higher eating establishments often had. She had shown up in the nick of time, having spent the last few minutes blowing dry the red paint she'd freshly applied to her distressed nails.

He had been standing right where he said he would be when she approached the entrance. Lecter was adorned in his accustomed three piece suit, a dark grey color that rivaled charcoal. His blonde hair was back and away from his face, the tanned skin of his structured jaw freshly shaved. Offering her a warm smile as she approached, she returned the favor and took his extended hand in greeting once she'd closed the distance. The warmth of his touch was indeed contrasted by the persona he so often carried – Scarlett refrained from nearly pulling her hand out of his grasp in alarm. He had tilted his head slightly at her, but still carried a light, charming grin before ushering her inside – seemingly amused at her distracted action. They two were seated towards the back of the dimly lit café at his request.

Scarlett pursed her lips after they had been seated, keeping her hands in her lap and he elbows off of the table. "I'm guessing you're no longer upset with me," she pointed out.

He raised an eyebrow at her, "You were naughty this afternoon, Ms. Sage... But I see no reason to hold any sort of rancor against you. That'd be far from professional."

Looking down into her hands which were busy twisting a cloth napkin, she felt a fragment of heat rise to her face at his subtle comment.

"You've forgiven me for my discourteous behavior, as well?"

She looked up once more, misunderstanding, "… Well what do you have to apologize for?"

He lightly shrugged his rigidly straight, broad shoulders, uttering in his deeply accented tone, "I thought I might have offended you."

She licked her bottom lip, which was still a bit swollen from how harshly she'd abused it in the past week, "It's okay. Everything you've said to me has been true, it's just that you were a little… cold in your delivery."

He eventually nodded, briefly. "I apologize if my behavior was off-putting to you. At times I find I take advantage of the delicacy of a situation in order to pursue treatment or recovery or whatever other nonsense…" he explained with a wave of his hands before entwining both sets of fingers together before him in thought, adding, "Our relationship should be one in which you are comfortable, of course."

She smiled at his words, feeling awkward from pointing out his aloof demeanor, but pleasantly surprised with his response. His dark gaze rested on hers until he gestured to the menu in front of her with a nod of his head.

"I hope you'll eat something," he insisted.

"I haven't been that hungry, actually. Do you plan on eating?"

"Not at all," he spoke, "I'm a sort of cuisinier and enjoy preparing my own meals. I also prefer to eat later in the evening. Now is far too early."

She nodded her head, her hands still busy below the table tearing up a napkin in between them. This was one of the first bits of information about himself he had shared with her – their prior meeting focused all on the morbid details of her life and her daughter's. He was indeed relaxed now, and as his cool gaze continued to linger over her Scarlett felt as though their session was bound to turn into a casual convening between two acquaintances.

"I'm a horrible cook. I would burn things, leaving them in the oven too long or something when I would leave the kitchen... I ordered out a lot."

He tutted at her, almost coyly, "Takeout food is hardly nutritious."

"I guess not. Burned food isn't really a choice entrée, either," the redhead countered.

"Perhaps I shall have you over for dinner someday," the psychiatrist mused thoughtfully.

She could not repress the nervous laugh at the suggestion, "Yes, well. Maybe. I'm always swamped with work."

He offered a broader smile before nodding, closing his eyes as he did so to dismiss the subject before gesturing to the menu once more.

"In the meantime, please have something. I would like to talk to you about the last time you saw your daughter – a little food in the system will help calm your stomach, despite what you think."

Caught off guard, she looked at him a bit quizzically, but the dip of his head signaled that this would definitely end up being more than a social call. She resigned to sighing, glancing at the menu in front of her before saying, "I'll have the fettuccine."

Hannibal took the menu from her before beckoning a waiter. After it was all said and done, Scarlett had nearly torn the cloth in her grasp in half when he started up once more.

"Can you remember the last thing you said to her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"… I blocked it out."

* * *

Scarlett felt slightly shaken once more as she and the doctor departed the café, though he was quite reassuring of her as they made their way out. He looked as though he was putting forth more of an effort to become personable to her, which she was thankful for.

"That was a productive session… You fared far better than our last, you know. Perhaps it was the change of scenery."

She threw him a feeble smirk, noting his own, "Thank you. There's nothing wrong with your office though," she admitted.

"Accordingly, you'll arrive there on Friday at 2 o'clock, I assume?"

Scarlett looked at him in surprise, "That's three days from now."

"Your perception of time is remarkable," he joked lightly, to which she flushed.

Giving him a serious look after the slight abrasion, he nodded at her, "I would like you to come in. It is actually more typical for me to meet with patients 2-3 times a week – I see no reason why you should be an exception," though he paused for a moment with pressed lips, "You _are_ free on Fridays?"

"Yes. I have morning classes."

"Mhmm. Then I shall see you then."

She took in his decisive yet polite comment with a sigh, preparing to grab the hand he was surely about to extend in 'goodbye'. Though the next moment she was looking into his line of sight. Unfortunately for her, the contact caused a jolt to course through her before she toppled over clumsily, landing smack dab in the middle of a cobblestone sidewalk. She had let out a cry of surprise at the motion, but the fall was not that bad. The arms that broke her fall were really the only sore things on her body.

Hannibal was surprised by her quick collapse, the display catching him off guard when she took her spill. He had glanced at the floor, taking in the mix of squares. There was nothing really for her to trip on besides that of her own feet.

"Are you _alright,_ Ms. Sage?"

His question was one of concern as he bent down beside the woman and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, attempting to grab the opposite forearm before she jutted away from him.

"Don't _touch _me! _Don't_! I'm _fine,_" she spewed, looking down at the cobblestone after she had flinched away.

Hannibal took in her demeanor with surprise before adopting a frown, quiet for a moment before offering his hand to her once again but making no movement to grab her form.

"You are far from fine. Let me help you," he beckoned her with a motion from his hand.

She stayed there for a moment, attempting to steady her breathing. She felt her heart thudding against the cold bricks below her, her pulse sharp and painful – though it had nothing to do with having fallen.

"Ms. Sage?"

Not looking up at the face of the source of the word, she directed her attention only to the outstretched hand before her. A tear pricked at the corner of her eye.

"… _Ms. Sage._"

She snapped out of her façade, forcing herself with a shudder to place an alabaster toned hand into his tanned, larger one. She was upright within moments, the shadow of the towering figure that stood with her submerged her in darkness. The psychiatrist stared at her with worry – but more apparently, curiosity.

She shifted away from him a few steps; his hand released hers the minute she was on her feet.

"I'm sorry for yelling," she managed awkwardly, noting his understanding nod before turning away.

"I'm guessing you do not wish to talk of it," he commented to her retreating back; a back which tensed before coming to a stop. She was determined to get into her car and drive home. She'd ruined the evening. She hated herself for it.

"I'm fine. I'll see you Friday."

Hannibal Lecter did not respond to her as she took her leave. However, he remained on the sidewalk, placing his hands in slack pockets as he watched her cross the street before she was lost to a mess of traffic and crowded parking lots. The fragility of his newest patient sparked his curiosity. He smirked to himself, unable to refrain from comparing her previously distraught, cobble-stone ridden form to that of the cloth napkin he'd watched her unconsciously tear to shreds in the Artisan.


	3. Chapter 3

Scarlett had never been a solitary teacher. Instead, she preferred constant movement. Often her students would get lost in between her words and the fast-paced strides she would make from one point to another in front of the room. It was a dynamic of hers – an attempt to maintain control of the classroom's faltering perception while keeping herself at ease when in front of the full atrium.

That particular class rang difficult. Going off the looks of the young adults facing her, the professor felt a wave of uncertainty hit her. Something was different – the vibe of the room had changed. And were they looking at her with sympathy?

She cleared her throat, brushing a bead of sweat away from her brow before going on with the lesson._ Catalysts_, she had said – _catalysts accelerate chemical reactions. _

_They must've heard about Julie – _she had thought, internally.

_Catalysts themselves remain unaffected by the reaction –_ she continued aloud.

_They know about it –_ she pointed out again.

She felt the hour stretch before her. She thought of cutting the lesson short, but it wouldn't do. It was a phase. It _shouldn't_ be this hard to control an emotion. Scarlett continued.

_Catalysts are nothing more than… manipulators._

* * *

The bell rang through the building once the end of the hour came into place. It was the first time since her own college days that she welcomed the transition with relief. She nodded at the students who tried to file out of the room as quickly as possible, no doubt in an attempt to grab a snack before a next class was due.

A few students offered her weak smiles as they passed by – Doctor Sage, as they so called her, maintained her polite composure. She felt a pressure release from her chest the moment the door closed behind the last student. Walking over to the corner of the room, she collapsed into the desk that she held claim to, allowing her forehead to rest in between the palms of her hands for a solid minute until the papers askew upon the desk earned her attention.

"You'd think this was _high school_," she muttered to herself, stacking the lab reports together that had been carelessly tossed amid the clutter of her personal papers and contacts.

Shuffling the papers into a singular pile and stacking them in the corner felt like an accomplishment to her. A wry smile lightened her mood and her hand picked up the newly ringing phone without hesitance.

"Hello, this is Doctor Sage," she answered formally – the way she was used to doing so here.

"Good to hear your voice, Professor," the happier tone rang across the line. She raised her eyebrows at his cheeriness.

"I sound far from desperate, don't you think Agent Crawford?"

She could perceive his smile, "Now, Ms. Sage, you're going to have to forgive me if I upset you last time I saw you. I wanted to ask you about your sessions with Doctor Lecter."

"What about them?"

"Are they helping you? Do you like Doctor Lecter?"

Chewing the inside of her lip absentmindedly, she thought on the questions. And they were two very different inquisitions, at that. The redhead was unsure of what sort of answer to offer going solely off of the two lone encounters she'd had with her psychiatrist.

"I have an appointment with him in less than an hour, actually."

"Oh? Well, I won't keep you for long. I talked to Hannibal and he told me that you were going to be meeting more often."

She tapped her fingers on the desk before her; she didn't really like the idea of her psychiatrist and Crawford discussing her.

"… Yes. Did he say anything else while you two were chatting it up?"

"He said he liked having you as a patient."

Scarlett _hmmed_ over the receiver, unsure of how to place the comment."I wonder what that means, coming from a psychiatrists' perspective, I mean."

Jack seemed to shrug it off with a light, though deeply-toned laugh, "Well I'm _sure_ it's a good thing. He's an extremely reputable person – I would take it as a compliment."

A moment of silence passed, "I will do that, Agent Crawford."

"Ms. Sage? There is one more thing."

"Yes?"

"The lab will be able to release your daughter's body in a few days. If you need any help with funeral arrangements, I have a contact on hand. They would be more than happy to take care of anything," he insisted.

She brought a frail hand to her face, the nails on her forefingers caught in her mouth as she bit down upon them.

"Thank you. I'll… call you in a day or two."

"Great. I'll let you get going – be sure to say hello to Dr. Lecter for me," he insisted with warmth. She didn't smile as she lowered her nails from her painted lips. She was thankful she was alone and that it was not necessary for her to do so. It was a horrible feeling, pretending to be content.

"I will. Goodbye."

* * *

Scarlett's experience in the lobby was similar to her last. The moment the clock struck two, the door opened. Hannibal Lecter's perfectionist-like personality seemed an absolute stickler for keeping time. Once more, a patient left the grand office looking unwell, bidding farewell to their trusted doctor before bolting down the hallway with quick steps, hands eventually drawn to their face in an attempt to wipe away whatever emotions they'd been put through.

Dismissive of these other patients, Hannibal's attention routinely switched over to the crimson haired woman who stood outside. It was not long before she was settled into the lounger opposite her psychiatrist, who'd since been quiet after greeting her.

"Do_ all_ of your patients burst into tears when they leave?"

He tilted his head a bit at her observation, wondering if she'd really planned to nit-pick the actions of others after her exploit only a few days before.

"More often than not."

"How come?"

"Doctor patient confidentiality_, Ms._ _Sage."_

She shrugged her shoulders, "Sorry. It just seemed awkward to me."

His suited shoulders leaned forward as he sat up more in the chair a moment later, "… _most_ of my patients have more severe mental health issues – most exhibit extreme symptoms relative to their problems… they can certainly be a type to lament."

"Obviously," the redhead agreed, though felt her comment might have lent towards the insensitive and corrected herself.

"Uh – that's to be expected, I guess. I didn't know you dealt with that, though. In comparison I must be a boring patient…" she commented, a glimmer of curiosity taking over her as she waited for a response, given what she already knew.

He'd narrowed his expression at her, a thin smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before her brought up a leg and rested it at an angle across his opposite knee – the fabric of his black suit of his pant leg was tugged up slightly due to his relaxed position.

"No, no – not at all. I am intrigued by you," he commented. It was an innocent remark, but the delivery of it seemed fond, almost too doting for a patient-doctor association.

Scarlett shook that thought away – quickly, too.

She glanced away for a moment before letting her eyes settle onto his unchanging ones, "I heard you and Jack Crawford were talking about me …?"

It was half a question, half an accusation.

He nodded, "Yes."

She raised an eyebrow, "So… about that "patient-doctor" confidentiality?"

"I promise to you I would not reveal anything you would not give clearance to, if that eases your mind. It is important you know that you may be open with me without any kind of worry."

"… That's good, then."

"Worried that I was to tattle on your… bad behavior, hmmm?"

She grimaced, "Maybe."

"I would not tell, however – "

Scarlett cut in with a quick sigh, " – you want me to _explain_."

"I wish you would."

She looked down at her hands, which were currently free of anything with which to twist or turn. Instead, her fingers entwined together and she unconsciously clenched and released them.

"I just don't like being touched," she admitted.

He took in her comment with a cool demeanor, "I have shaken your hand multiple times."

"That's different."

"So you're suggesting a form of Chiraptophobia. Might I inquire as to the severity, as well as when this started?"

She was quick to shake her head, "Doctor Lecter, I would prefer if we just stuck to what these sessions are for."

He looked at her with perplexity, "And what do you think that to be?"

She shrugged her shoulders, which were covered by the sleeves of a crème colored blazer – likely the professional attire she wore to work. The curly crimson locks that fell to her shoulders were complimented by the contrast.

"… Julie."

The psychiatrist shook his head at her, "These sessions are for _you,_ Ms. Sage. They can be whatever you need them to be."

She sighed. He uncrossed his legs, rising from the lounger.

"Would you mind standing, Ms. Sage?"

She looked up at his now standing demeanor with surprise, "Why?"

"I now have the urge to conduct an experiment," came the flat reply.

Scarlett rose steadily, her pencil skirt reaching full length once in her upright position.

"Come," he used a pair of fingers to beckon her forward, "The center of the room, please."

His request was so polite Scarlett would've considered it wrong to refuse. A few strides nearly closed the distance between the pair, though the good doctor had kept a meter's length between the two.

"I have no intention of harming you," he insisted in a cautionary way, holding his hands up with his palms facing towards her in a manner that intended to prove his sincerity. He dropped his palms, the pair falling to his side in unison.

Scarlett felt herself inadvertently flinch away at the first miniscule movement he made towards her person and managed a single, exasperated warning - "_Don't._"

He hesitated for a moment, allowing her to catch her breath as he took in the widening of her jade orbs. He could see the internal conflict going on within her, it was like catching a glimpse a film he'd not been allowed into, but had gone nonetheless.

Despite this, the psychiatrist had taken a step wide enough to meet the side of her figure.

"Try to relax," he'd said as he passed her by. She felt the need to recoil but remained still. She did not turn her body and eyes to follow his actions when he was no longer visible. Her jaw clenched.

"Are you all right?"

She was completely tense – unable to speak until the doctor had circled around her completely, his dark eyes rested on hers once more. She still kept her mouth shut, but nodded tautly.

"Good," he offered her a calm smile, "You are dealing just fine with proximity."

Scarlett felt herself tense once more at the motion of the good doctor, ready to circle her once more. It made her terribly uncomfortable. She knew he was only trying to help her, but the circling action made her uneasy.

He was like the golden lion, stalking the timid gazelle with flawless patience, waiting for the right time to strike her down.

Just the thought of that comparison made her jump as he began to pass her, the doctor taking note with internal satisfaction before disappearing behind her smaller figure once again.

"Breathe," he'd spoken – her mind raced at the command whispered behind her neck, a settling mist that fell upon her shoulders and sent shivers down her spine.

The hand that brushed delicately upon her sloped shoulder caused a fear-laced tremor to course through her and she could not help it when she bolted away from him – a step forward before she turned to face him, a tremble notable on her bottom lip.

"_This isn't going to work_," she said, her breathing hitched. He had placed his hands together.

"How long have you been this way?"

"…Years."

He frowned slightly, feeling as though that was an impossible claim. "How were you ever able to get through schooling?"

She had taken to biting her lip, _again_.

"The teacher-student relationship is not a physical one."

"Of course, but at some point you've had to have been –"

"I _wasn't_. I told you before that I was lucky, didn't I?" she lashed.

He made the connection, a thin smile came over him as he nodded, "You did."

She was still tense and had taken to crossing her arms in front of herself like some sort of defense mechanism.

"Did you not hug your daughter, or extend to her any sort of physical closeness?"

Her jaw slacked slightly, "Of course I did."

The man gave her a look that she could not place, but it was somewhat smug – he'd taken another step towards her.

"Doctor Lecter…"

"Just calm yourself, if you think of your fear as irrational – so it will become."

Before she knew it he'd circled around her once more. Scarlett closed her eyes tightly the moment she felt the light graze of strong, elongated fingers suited for piano playing on her shoulder once more. They were brushing away stray crimson locks that burdened the spot. The woman attempted to swallow everything down, though his hand did not leave her, sparking her worry.

As if hearing her internal concerns, the doctor spoke up, "You are awfully silent – please breathe."

She felt lightheaded, on the verge of being forced to draw a breath. She would have done so, too if the psychiatrist had not taken her opposite shoulder with his other hand so suddenly – holding her form firmly in between the two strong barriers of his palms.

She let out an audible squeak in spite of herself, quickly trying to jump away from the makeshift entrapment. But she found herself unable to move, the doctor's grip on her steady – but not harsh.

"Doctor Lecter – please let go!"

"No, Ms. Sage. I am not hurting you. I want you to calm yourself."

He'd kept her at half an arm's length from his broad stature, feeling as though any additional pressure added to her at the time could prove too much for her to bare.

Hot tears began to stream down the sides of her face, a toll of panic sweeping through her.

"Let _go_ of me!" she'd choked out, harshly, "Stop it!"

Hannibal let the top of his form to lean forward slightly. He took the time to take in her scent - the woman was so wracked with distraught that she'd have hardly been keen enough to pick up on it. He was surprised that the dainty little thing before him gave off an almost intoxicating aroma - one that was musky, as strong and exotic as a spice. The man allowed his eyes to flicker closed for only a moment.

He uttered a subtle command meant to soothe as he spoke with the suavity of his accented voice, "You will be okay, little Scarlett. You are not trapped. I will let go of you as soon as you calm yourself."

She hissed out, a mere reaction to a mental twinge of pain at the breathy words. She was so lost in shock that she'd failed to her notice him use her name – and in such a way as that, too.

"Please… let go. I am fine," she'd trembled, her form subsiding only slightly beneath his fingers.

"You say that often so often. I do wonder why…" his voice lingered behind her.

She did not respond. She did not respond for several minutes, only the pair stood in their uncomfortable positions – waiting. Hannibal had tried to relax the captured shoulders as best he could, his fingers messaging small circles into her cloth-covered skin.

Hannibal noted that it took precisely four minutes and thirty four seconds for her to produce a comment void of her previous anxiety. He was curious when her words showed a bit of aggression had taken over.

"You need to let go of me now."

The doctor cleared his throat. "A touch is not so bad. You should embrace the power of such a sense."

She was quiet, waiting for him to release her.

Her tears were still present. He knew this even if they were visually imperceptible to him.

"Hands are just an extension of our minds."

Heat. A warning, red flag hit her mind at his words. She wondered with caution what purpose those hands on her shoulders held relative to the mind of the psychiatrist they were attached to.

A knock broke both of their thoughts – two pairs of eyes found themselves glued to the door. Hannibal released the young woman who instinctively took a few steps from him. He regarded her for a moment before saying, "Someone's early."

"That's fine," she muttered, turning to grab the purse she'd flung beside the large recliner, "I'm ready to go."

He nodded, waiting for her to collect her things with patience before guiding her to the door. The woman nodded her head as she passed by, not vocalizing a word and averting her eyes from the man who stood outside when the oak door was held open for her. She did not want him to see her tears, though she felt both men had been staring at her back as she bustled down the hallway in an obvious hurry.

She didn't take the time to appreciate the irony.

Hannibal turned to man in front of him, chestnut hair out of place and glasses askew upon the bone of his nose.

"You're early, Will," the doctor reprimanded the young man before inviting him inside, cordially. Will furrowed his brows and eyed his appointed mentor with sarcasm as he entered.

"Looks like you're making a lot of progress with her," he commented, the light offense made with the intent of annoying the doctor.

Lecter offered a playful smile to the young agent, who was already walking over to the bookcases. The troubled FBI agent was accustomed to doing so when it came to their visits. For the most part, he was not fond of eye contact.

Taking a brisk walk over to his desk, the doctor scribbled down a note on a piece of paper, ready now to switch his attention over to Will Graham – the second among his two most interesting projects.

_4:34_


	4. Chapter 4

There were two separate pairs of eyes – each of the duo scanning the sight in silence. One pair was merely observing the picture; dark orbs, keen on following the movements of the other man alongside him as opposed to marking the details of the crime scene. His counterpart's baby blues, on the other hand, looked to be affected by relentless, reoccurring demons.

Hannibal had observed the gifted young agent's gaze on many occasions despite objection, and so to him the look was a telling one. Though the awkward younger man appeared to be simply affected by a gruesome sight, it was clear to Hannibal that the machinations of Will's mind were once again busy at work. The slight, spaced-out haze over his crystal toned glare gave everything away to the psychiatrist. The good doctor simply remained in place to watch and admire the troublesome yet effective process Will was subjected to each and every time they worked on a case.

Will had closed his eyes, breathing in deeply – his nostrils flared upon his exhale. The few lines that graced the young man's face had visibly tightened and his forehead creased.

"Your insight, Will?"

The sudden suavity of the vocalization brought on by the doctor forced his lids to flicker back open in agitation. He frowned.

"It's the same killer," he muttered almost entirely to himself before taking the time to look down at the body that lay far below the men, out of reach and barely visible despite the artificial lights they used. "I know the… _methods_ are slightly different – but the goal behind the method is still the same. It's preservation," he noted, using his fingers that were free of a flashlight to push the metal wire of his glasses back further against the ridge of his nose. Looking down into the shallow pit had caused them to tilt out of place.

"You are referring to preservation of the body."

"He was trying to keep the _meat_ fresh."

Will spat out that second-to-last word as though it caused a burning sensation to his tongue.

"Even in the middle of the summer the well was deep and cool enough to act as a refrigerant. The water she's lying in is just above freezing right now… there would be no need for disposal worry, and it's easy - anybody can use a water-based cooling system. A well is simple…and_ discrete_."

Hannibal had remained straight in posture for the majority of the time, still able to dip his head down to gaze at the porcelain-skinned girl who was still lying in the bottom of the little well. Clear water covered most of her form, though the top of her torso and face were deadly still as they lingered above the surface. Long strands of the victim's dark locks were spread out over the film of the water. The swilling tendrils reminded the psychiatrist of a willow's branches among a darkening sky.

"That is not to mention that this is a private well," the blonde haired man had pointed out with an unblinking glare at the girl, "The toxicity profile would be more than likely clear of anything that could contaminate her body, making any part of her safe for consumption."

"Yeah," Will agreed, adopting another grimace before stealing only a quick look at the doctor and turning away from him towards the well once more, "They're checking the levels… I bet it's basically distilled."

Doctor Lecter nodded, turning away from the circular stoned well to face Will Graham. He placed his hands into the pocket's of his suit as casually as a man like him could do. The pants and corresponding jacket were sharp-tailored and cut to precision. The navy color was rich and gave off an old-fashioned, antiquated chic – satin lapels contrasted in shade only slightly from the rest of the attire, giving off a midnight tinted sheen.

"You've now two bodies both found within weeks of one another."

"_Only_ two found. There's more out there. Probably more on the way. That's the problem," his words were choppy, and worried.

"Is there a commonality between the victims that you haven't picked up on?"

Will shook his head, "They're girls – they're, they're _young_ – from basically the same area. Nothing else that's particularly obvious."

"So your cannibal is more or less not selective of his prey?"

Will continued to shake his head at the comment, "No. No, he's still _selective _– he wouldn't eat just anyone. He just… he looks at these women as ingredients. His motive doesn't go beyond that, and there isn't an emotional connection. He didn't even know he was going to kill these girls until probably the first time he saw them."

Hannibal had narrowed his eyes in doubt, cocking his head to the side.

"That would seem to be a rather risky behavior for a serial killer."

"Well this isn't just any killer… he's intelligent," Will pointed out, blinking a few times in rapid succession as if another thought was pressing him on, "He's picking his victims out of the blue, taking them and getting away with it. He's sharp… he can figure things out as he goes along – it's never a definite plan. He doesn't need one."

"So he prides himself on it, then. A sort of a game, or something of the like?"

"I guess you could call it that. I guess_ he_ would call it that."

They began to walk off away from the scene – allowing for the surrounding FBI and paramedics to close in on it. By the time they'd crossed a yellow strip of tape, both were walking towards the car they'd driven in together. Will unsteady and anxious – Hannibal tranquil and composed. Hannibal caught Will's eyes as they carried on alongside one another, offering him a fraction of a smile in the hopes of composing him.

"Allow me to drive, Will. I do not think you are in the state to be doing so," he pointed out.

Will shot Hannibal an annoyed look, though it simply seemed to amuse the collected psychiatrist. The young agent dug a hand into the pocket of his light brown jacket, fishing out a ringlet of keys before tossing them over.

"It'd be nice if you didn't psychoanalyze me in public," Will said with bitter sarcasm.

Lecter caught the keys with ease and a smirk – his reflexes were quick – Will was positive the doctor's line of sight hadn't left him even as the mess of metal came towards him.

"You're right, Will. That is what the sessions are for."

The psychiatrist allowed the lightest trace of a chuckle before propping open a car door. Will followed suit, releasing a sigh as he settled into his seat.

"Speaking of sessions…" his words lingered in the air for a moment, allowing time for the good doctor to catch their intention.

"Perhaps it would be best not to start, Will," the suggestion was a bit more like that of a command – Will did not recognize, or at least did not care to recognize whatever boundary his psychiatrist wanted to set.

"That girl that was leaving the other day – "

"_Woman."_ Hannibal corrected, turning the key in the ignition a bit harshly before glancing up in the mirror to back up.

"Yeah, right – I know. She's Julianne Sage's mother, isn't she?"

Hannibal nodded tautly, adjusting the gear before the two were off on the road, "Yes, she is. Though I am afraid I cannot divulge anything more relative to Ms. Sage. She is, of course, a patient of mine."

"She's _technically _part of the case," Will insisted.

The blonde man was disinclined to agree, "Our associations are undeniably separate."

"She knows you're working on the case, right?"

Hannibal was quiet for a moment, staring only at the road ahead of him before finally offering, "It has not yet come up and I have not explicitly admitted this to her. Rest assured I shall be doing so."

Will shook his head, letting out a laugh as he did so. Hannibal turned to appraise his sudden change in behavior with the slightest indication of shock.

"How is that humorous?"

The brown-haired man simply smirked, "Oh, I don't know. If I were her psychiatrist I'd have probably opened with that information. But, you're the expert."

Hannibal moved his eyes back towards the street, still looking inert. "As I said, I shall remedy the situation."

"What does she do?"

The suited man shifted, deciding that question was one that could be answered by any basic background check. "She is a professor of organic chemistry, holding a doctorate."

"_Ah."_

"Quite."

"… I would like to meet her," Will suggested, leaning his head against the glass of the window while facing the man in the driver's seat with his torso half-turned.

Hannibal's expression did not change, though his lips did thin, "No, Will."

Will's jaw protruded slightly, "I could meet her either way, you know. She's relevant to the case – maybe she could help, especially with her degree."

The long fingers of the psychiatrist put additional pressure on the steering wheel ahead of him before he replied with a shake of his head.

"That is a ridiculous idea. You know that. You are simply trying to test my patience. Why I do not know."

Will pressed on, rolling his eyes faintly. "Forensic science was created to discover why people are killed or to interpret a crime scene. Maybe you don't know this, but _humans _are made entirely from organic material; an organic chemist could be helpful."

"Not one who's just had their daughter murdered, however," the response quick.

"Who in her position would pass up on helping to put the killer behind bars?"

Hannibal sent his dark gaze back to Will once again, "I suggest you propose your nonsense to Jack Crawford, Will."

The young agent wanted to grin at that but maintained composure. He'd managed to visibly aggravate the man before him and found it a rarity. "I'll do that, Doctor Lecter," he insisted, earning what could best be described as a scowl from the man.

The two turned their attention away from one another and to the road. Will's eyes widened at the sight ahead, his mouth falling agape in shock – "Look out!"

The doctor remained relatively calm in comparison to his counterpart. His reflexes were just as sudden as the obstruction that was before the car, one swift turn of the wheel to the right and the harsh application of a break sent the automobile into a half spin.

Will felt his face smack the glass of the passenger side, a daze hitting him as the car settled to a stop. Hannibal's attention went to Will instinctively as the stag he'd managed to dodge carried on across the street, apparently unaltered by the screeching of tire upon asphalt.

"Will – are you injured?" his tone alert as he placed a hand on the younger man. Will groaned out in distaste, bringing a hand to his head, rubbing the newly afflicted ache before turning to Hannibal. Part of his glasses had shattered and the little pieces of glass managed to cut into his nose and upper cheeks.

"_I'm _the one unfit to drive? … I'll just walk home," the man managed, still feeling dizzy.

Lecter repressed a smirk at his continual use of sarcasm. It was such an obvious defense mechanism, "Nonsense, Will. Let's get you back to headquarters – they can clean you up there, I am sure."

The agent grimaced, but nodded as Hannibal put the car back into gear.

"That was a stag, wasn't it?" Will had asked.

"Yes. I do believe so. Why do you ask?"

Will dipped his head back, leaning it against the padded material of the seat.

"No reason."

* * *

A couple of days had passed by. Scarlett was in a rush – such a rush that she nearly collided with the impending figure that loomed outside the doorway of her classroom. Catching her breath after jumping a little at the scare, she looked up at the man. He looked to have something on his mind.

"What are you doing here?"

He straightened a bit at her surprised tone, wondering if she'd be offended that he'd come to her workplace.

"I hope you do not mind. I wished to speak with you. You've frequented my office and I thought on perhaps reversing the scenery."

She did not respond quickly, lingering in the doorway with an unsettling look on her face. Hannibal Lecter began to assume that she did not want him there, but he did not remove the coy smile that played on his lips. Something told him the woman wouldn't explicitly admit the fact that she'd prefer it if he'd left – she was hardly rude.

"… I have a class very soon. Come in quickly," she invited, stepping back and out of the way so that he could enter with a couple long strides.

Hannibal appraised the room with a wandering eye before resting his sights on the redhead who'd turned to face him.

"I am not sure that these surroundings suit you."

"It's an atrium – hardly an office. The one at home is where I really do my work…" she crossed her arms in front of her chest, "Is there anything wrong?"

The tall man pursed his lips at the question.

"A momentary lapse in judgment. It has come to my attention that you may or may not be aware of my involvement on the case."

She arched a brow, "Your involvement," she repeated flatly, "But you're not actual FBI."

A slight turn of his head downplayed this, "No. Rather I am assisting Will Graham on the case, offering consultation as a forensic psychiatrist."

The redhead was quiet, her expression almost unreadable even to the trained eye of the doctor before she shrugged her shoulders. "Well. Thanks for letting me know."

Before he knew it, she was stalking off towards the door once more and had placed a frail pale hand upon the knob, pulling it open and standing beside it. "I really have a class in ten minutes, though, Doctor Lecter."

Hannibal remained fixed where he was, his hands joining together in front of him as he eyed her behavior. "You are not upset."

The professor stared. "Why would I be?"

"You should be."

"Could it be that I am but regrettably am pressed for time and can't deal with this right now?"

"Then your actions are passive-aggressive."

"… Doctor Lecter, unless _you'd_ like to give a lecture on polymerization, you should just go. I'm coming to your office in a couple days, anyway."

He smirked lightly at this, stepping forwards so that he was no longer stationary. "I certainly would not mind the enlightenment of sitting in on your lecture."

Her expression faltered a bit as she bit the inside of her lip, "I would think through the course of your own studies you've already been thoroughly enlightened."

"I would enjoy it nonetheless," he insisted.

Her fingers slipped from the door handle before the young woman sighed. Not wanting to argue, she pointed towards the high-rise of the atrium, "You can sit in the back. This is only an hour long lecture."

"Ah. And here I would have much preferred a front row seat,_ professor_," he insisted with another one of his coy smiles. She gritted her teeth in slight annoyance, tossing a hand upward.

"Sit wherever you'd like. I just thought you'd be less of a distraction up there."

Titling his head with a smirk, "I'd distract you?"

The rosy tint of her cheeks reddened, "_No._ A distraction to my students."

Turning on her heel, she looked away and went to gather some papers on her desk before heading back over towards the door. "I'll be right back. Students should be coming in soon… make yourself comfortable," she added the last part with grit before disappearing behind a door.

* * *

When Scarlett had returned her classroom was already half full of students chatting among themselves. Despite the eighty or so seated individuals, her eyes immediately found Hannibal Lecter amid the group – he carried a sort of guise that allowed him to stand out in a room, not that it was difficult given the situation. A tailored suit was one among many hooded sweatshirts and tees. She was content that he had taken to sitting where she had asked, deciding it would be easier to concentrate were he not her direct line of vision. _Out of sight – out of mind._

When the woman cleared her throat to begin class Hannibal found it curious that she intentionally avoided eye contact with him throughout the entire lesson. He kept his façade, noting that she would stare into the bulk of a group of people, not letting her eyes connect with a specific individual for any longer than necessary. She used her_ hands_ when she spoke – rather than adopting a variety of facial expressions. The hair which was pulled back into a long curly tress swayed as she walked across the room and felt the gazes of many follow her. All of her methods seemed to adhere to the visual learner, which was curious considering her own disposition on eye contact.

There were subtle hints that gave way to her discomfort. Scarlett was able to deliver her lecture without stumble or stutter; however, her voice seemed to falter with each passing minute. Her original attention-demanding tone lost its strength to the point where it would break at certain words. She quieted with time, once in a while forcing herself to pick back up again. Her face was passive but Hannibal was keen to pick up on the thinnest line of sweat that dotted her forehead and ran along the length of her pulled back hairline.

For the most part, she had done an excellent job at hiding her uneasiness. The inner upset that shook her during the entire lecture had only managed to make itself known to the good doctor through the slightest of hints. He wondered if she was in this state for every class, or if it were just his presence that brought it out. Hannibal descended that stairs that lined the rows of seats when the class had been dismissed, eyeing the timid redhead who stood at a podium in the center of the room, engrossed in whatever paperwork lie before her.

She was conscious of his arrival as he approached her but kept her eyes down until he spoke up – his voice perceptible even over the chaos of many trampling young adults.

"Thank you for allowing me to sit in, Ms. Sage."

She looked up, taking a moment to breathe in before a feigned smile crossed her lips. "How did you find the lecture?"

"Riveting."

A laugh escaped from in between the Scarlett's painted lips. It was the first time he'd heard her laugh. It was soft, saccharine and as lingering as a sweet melody - even though it was only very brief. It was also evidently forced. Still, he smiled broadly at her action.

"An opinion that would contradict most of my students'... There's no need for sarcasm, Doctor Lecter."

"Not at all. I found you to be surprisingly charismatic."

She shrugged her shoulders a bit, looking back down at the papers in front of her with a taut grin, "Thank you."

Hannibal observed her, placing a hand upon the rim of the podium. He traced its chestnut ridge. The action caused her to catch his gaze once more. She gave him a look that emphasized the word _"what?"_

"… You do remind me of a separate patient of mine. You share much of the same qualities."

"Are they one of the ones with _"severe"_ behavioral issues?" she asked, actually using air quotes to emphasize what he'd said in their prior session. He shook his head with a smirk.

"You are both of sound mind," he assured her.

"Ah," she collected the papers, beginning to walk over to the desk in the corner before calling over her shoulder, "Good to know." He followed her direction with watchful eyes.

She was shuffling the papers in order; her back turned to him and slightly bent over her work. Scarlett knew he'd moved with her, feeling his presence when he came to stand behind just short of her smaller form, sheltering her from the beams of overhead light. She froze. She heard the trampling steps of students cease. The wooden door closed with a snap.

"Ms. Sage?"

"Y-Yes?"

His eyebrow quirked upwards as he waited patiently for the woman to turn around. She did so after a moment – looking pale. Her palms rested on the desk and her waist leaned back against it as well, holding her figure in place. He took the opportunity to scrutinize her minute trembling, the corner of his lips upturned still.

"I would love to have you for dinner."

She swallowed, "I kind of thought you were joking when you said that last time." He shook his head.

"It wouldn't be just you, Ms. Sage. I'm having a colleuge or two over for the evening and thought I needed to extend the invitation to you as well. I feel as though you must accept."

"Tonight?" her words alarmed.

"Tomorrow."

"Oh," she breathed out, the window was welcoming. "I don't know."

"It would be a personal favor to me… Jack will be there, likely wanting to make sure you are doing all right. Will Graham will be there as well," he stopped to tighten his lips, "He has also expressed an interest in meeting you. The pair phoned me today insisting upon it."

"Sounds more like an intervention at my expense." She looked to the side, "I don't really like the idea of being round-tabled with the_ FBI _and its associates," she muttered lightly.

"I understand," his voice calm, "Though you will be in my home, and whilst I am there you can be sure they will not hassle you."

His form was so close to hers that she wondered why he would be at all concerned about _them _hassling her. She felt pale, but knew her ivory toned skin was all but flourishing in red hue before him. He always looked so intently at her, as if nothing else could ever being to capture his attention away from the woman.

"… I'll be there, then."

He grinned with satisfaction, earning an awkwardly-forced smile from her in response. Just after, she noticed his dark eyes tear from her own, glancing just behind her at the mess upon her desk. They were back on hers, an unreadable look.

"No pictures of family, Ms. Sage?"

She blinked, looking down in upset. Biting her lip, she forced slender legs to work as she slipped out from under the demeanor of the doctor and waited for him to follow her towards the door.

"Pictures of what?"

"_Family_," he repeated, and even without the accent the word sounded foreign coming from him. A word that was intended to hold warmth was suddenly chilled by his cold delivery.

It was reflected by the woman, whose heels clicked as they crossed the floor in side-by-side unison. "No."

He decided not to push it. There'd be time for that later. Hannibal only nodded at her, and for the final time she'd opened the door and he passed by.

"Doctor Lecter – " she halted him, who now stood just outside of the door adjusting the cuffs of his jacket as he waited for her to continue.

"In light of the invitation, I thank you," she began, earning another dip of the refined man's head and a courteous grin before she continued.

"… However, I would appreciate it if you called me by my professional title from now on, or even _Doctor_ Sage. In spite of everything, I _am _a doctor, you know."

He felt his subtle grin stolen, and a passive expression once again plagued his sharp features. Scarlett gave him a curt nod and a sympathetic smile before closing the door on him.

Hannibal was torn between the urges of bringing livid fingers to a pale throat before throttling the life from the woman; he also fought the urge to not find her actions as impressive as he thought them to be.

And with the exception of the light laughter beforehand, Scarlett appeared to glow in that moment – she held a glint in her eye that rivaled a sparkle.

* * *

"_Such is the__ tempting spitfire."_


	5. Chapter 5

Scarlett Sage found herself falling asleep and waking up in the oddest of places.

It was silent. She longed for it to stay that way as her eyes fought to remain closed against the warmth of the sun that had brightened the room. It was afternoon; delicate white drapes hanging from the open window blew lightly and caused the material to billow. A forearm wiped the sweat that glazed her temple. The woman used her elbows to lift a frail upper body from the cool linoleum of her kitchen floor, forcing her eyes to wake. She stole a weary glance towards the clock hanging from the wall, suddenly conscious of the time and recalling the dinner plans she held for the evening.

The redhead stood up shakily, making to clutch the end of the bar once upright in stature. While leaning against the rise of the counter in an attempt to calm the upset she was feeling, a nauseous, vile, acidic vibe ran through her. Her still-heeled feet had shuffled over to the sink just in time before the bile managed to come up. Scarlett groaned in aggravation as a hand went to turn on the faucet; a cool stream of water worked to clean out the mess. She fumbled for a cloth and ran it under the tap before bringing it to her forehead.

She didn't really _want _to go. But something told her cancelling for a second time with the meticulous doctor wouldn't be wise. There was something off-putting about him; his rigid stature and minute changes of facial expression made her conscious of it. And not only that, she'd picked up on the last look of his before he disappeared behind the frame of the office door. She'd affected him.

It had felt necessary to do it then… an easy way to bite back at his prodding. He deserved it. But as she thought in her home later on that evening her perspective fully changed.

"_That was stupid…"_

She'd half expected a cancellation – instead a voicemail had been left on her receiver from the very same man, voice passive, indicating a time and place. So maybe he wasn't as mad as she thought. Nonetheless, she couldn't rid her imagination of a scenario in which the courteous psychiatrist dismissed her before slamming the office door in her own face, taking solace in referring to her as _Doctor Sage _as he did it.

* * *

"It makes no difference; I can rearrange the table setting. I merely would have preferred a phone call prior. You are the ones to have insisted upon this."

The young agent shrugged his shoulders in response, cerulean eyes hiding behind new frames as they wandered around the foyer Hannibal Lecter had just invited him into. He noted a mahogany framed stair case with twisted iron bars leading up to the second floor – the rooms on this level were hidden behind the closed doors of adjacent hallways.

"Jack's been breathing down my neck all day – I'm kind of relieved he got tied up with the Bureau."

The grey-suited doctor had his hands clasped behind his back, "Why is that, Will?"

"Why is he breathing down my neck or why am I relieved?"

"They are related questions. An answer to one would suffice."

"I don't know," Will grimaced, glancing down at the polished hardwood of the floor in which he could see a trace of his reflection in. "He wants me - or _us, _I guess -to go and visit Caroline's parents tomorrow."

"The girl in the well."

"Yeah."

"And you do not want to," the calmer man presumed, which was easy going by the timid reaction of the man before him.

"I don't like house calls," he admitted. Hannibal nodded, a tight smile falling in place.

"Why not Dr. Bloom or perhaps Jack himself?"

"They're going to be _busy_," Will's eyes lifted to meet Hannibal's for a fraction of a second before they moved to the design of intricate wall paper, "I actually don't know what that means. I think he's trying to push me or something."

"Into the dark places. That would be natural for him, as it is natural for you to recoil. Though I will be alongside and trust you to be able to deal with it, hmm?"

Will scoffed, "I can _deal_ with it."

Hannibal's smirk was evident as drew his hands out from behind his back, glancing at the watch adorned on his wrist before catching the full gaze of Will Graham, "I need to finish up on a few things. You may wait in the living room – the other two should be arriving shortly. I ask that you please answer the door should either appear before my return."

"All right," the younger man said, following the direction to which Hannibal was now gesturing.

"Also. Will," the psychiatrist's curt tone halted his counterpart whose eyes tore from the fine room they'd been set on entering.

"I have assured Ms. Sage that she will not be pestered. Taking into consideration your intention to goad her into assisting on the case, you might wish to exercise some form of restraint."

"I might?" Will asked, furrowing his brow.

"Yes. I will not have her bothered. Although I cannot tell Jack Crawford that his allowance of this borders on the imbecilic taking into account her condition, I can certainly convey this to you."

The brown-haired agent crossed his arms, taking in the light glare of Doctor Lecter with a perplexed expression, "I wasn't going to ask her outright… Obviously I'll be able to tell if she'd be any help just by associating with her. But _just _to clarify – I mean, you did tell Jack she was fine when he asked about her."

"Yes I did. I did not, however, insist that she go chasing after demons…" the man quieted for a moment before continuing, "You of all people should be able to empathize with her, Will."

The young man looked ready to make a response, though his mouth simply remained agape until he closed it once more, sending a skittish glance over to the living room. Lecter edged him into the area with a curt nod before disappearing behind a door on the other side of the foyer – one he assumed led to a kitchen and dining room.

* * *

The color of Scarlett's attire rang true to her name.

The lustrous fabric of the dress glinted even in the darkness; moonlight reflected from it as she attempted the walk over to the veranda that signified the entrance of her psychiatrist's grand home. The gown draped down past her knees, a small slit in the side of it ran adjacent to the middle of an ivory thigh. Her collarbones were pronounced as it was a strapless piece, allowing for the dewy glow of her skin to be seen. She glanced at the expansive driveway, noting the shine of three automobiles separate from her own. She'd released a sigh in that instant, content that this was a limited gathering.

She'd rung the doorbell, patiently keeping her hands held in front of her as she clutched onto a small purse. A face she was quick to place answered her shortly after. Blue eyes that she recognized after leaving a frenzied session with the good doctor beckoned her inside and the heavy door was closed behind her.

"Hi. You're Scarlett Sage, right?

Offering a smile, she nodded and extended her hand to him. He took it with a flash of hesitance notable in his orbs, but it was soon replaced with that a look of thoughtfulness. She spoke up.

"You must've known that. You saw me leaving Dr. Lecter's office only a few days ago in a fit of tears," her words calm, careful not to sound accusing, "You have got to think I'm some sort of a basket case."

The man before her shook his head lightly, the chestnut locks tousled as he did so. "I don't think that, at _all_. I mean, I understand. I… I don't really like psychiatrists," he added with a half grin.

"Of course, Dr. Lecter is the exception I'm sure," her tone slightly amused.

"Yeah. He's really good at seeing people – _reading_ people."

"And has he helped you?"

Will swallowed, nodding his head in an unconscious movement several times before finally replying, "Yes. He's brilliant… I don't think anyone would say he wasn't, at least."

Scarlett glanced down, running a painted nail over the clasp of her purse.

"Yes. He is very intelligent," she noted, her bottom lip sinking under her teeth as she lost her train of thought.

The sound of heels broke a nearing awkward silence and a dark haired woman appeared in a doorway, "Will – "

Her eye contact switched over to the redhead almost immediately, adopting a broad smile as she stepped forth and threw out her hand in greeting, ignoring the man alongside whose gaze had jutted away in the opposite direction, anyway.

"Hello, Doctor Sage. I'm Alana Bloom, but you can just call me Alana, if you'd like," her tone friendly and charismatic.

Scarlett sent a quirky gaze over to Will, whose eyes were averted, before switching over to woman before her. Dark-brown curls swept her shoulders. Her lips were cherry, pulled into a wide smile that revealed her whitened pearls.

"Then you can call me Scarlett," she insisted, "Are you a colleuge of Dr. Lecter's?"

Alana's eyes were bright, "Yes. I studied under him for a year. We're all currently working under Jack Crawford at the moment though," she tacked on, gesturing to Will with a free hand so as to include him.

"And Jack?"

"Apparently there was an emergency he got caught up in."

"That's unfortunate."

Alana grinned, "For _him_, it is. He's going to be missing out; Doctor Lecter is a superb cook. It's impossible to be dissatisfied."

She turned to Will, "Haven't you had Hannibal's cooking?"

"Not, uh, a meal as formal as this one. But he sometimes brings food over. It's always delicious," Will assured, nodding at them with and ending with a weak grin. Both women smiled in response.

Alana gestured back towards the door in which she'd entered, "He asked me to see if you'd arrived," she inclined her head towards Scarlett, "So now that you're _here_ we should probably head into the dining room. While the food is still hot," she added with a laugh.

* * *

Hannibal Lecter was a master of manipulation – and when it came to controlling a room of colleagues and guests, they always parted with the kindest of compliments and talked among themselves for the days on end about what a wonderful evening the good doctor had given them. It was effortless to him, to elicit these responses. He'd had years of experience.

Of course, tonight would be similar to all of the others. He'd serve them Florentine Sweetbreads, masking the name with an alias and politely deflecting any interest in the recipe's specifics – claiming it a secret – which all three of those joined around his dining room table would indulge in, he was certain.

He'd served Alana before, a woman whom he respected as a colleuge but not enough so as to deny her from his enticing cuisine.

Then there was Will, one of the most intriguing people he'd ever encountered. Namely because the young agent seemed to rival him when it came to intelligence, though was somehow still blissfully unaware of his most sinister acts. Cat and mouse games were always the most amusing. Though he did not wish to jeopardize his own life and career for the troubled younger man, he'd fantasized about scenarios in which Will suddenly lost all of his oblivious attributes.

He'd revel in Will's sudden understanding, the shocked expression etched into his features after realizing he'd been played like a fiddle for such a long time. He'd take in the look of distaste that would sweep over him after grasping the fact the very victims they'd sought to solve the murders of together had been served up to him in the form of some scrumptious delicacy. And then there would be that look of empathy hidden beneath it all – because Will_ would_ empathize with him. Of all the traits that made Will the way he was, his ability to understand murders - the ability to understand the good doctor himself – stood most impressive. So impressive, in fact, that Hannibal Lecter wouldn't be able to resist consuming him. Metaphorically or quite realistically, he was still unsure.

So Will, of course, would be no exception to the ominous meal.

"Hello, Doctor Lecter."

That third person, whose voice held a slight unease and noticeably effeminate tone caught his attention as he entered the room with several eloquently placed dishes stacked open an outstretched, suited arm.

She certainly held no exclusion. In fact, he'd looked forward to serving to her rather than anyone else in the room.

It'd be deeply sardonic in her case. He was somewhat amused that the dark irony would go wasted on everyone but himself.

"Hello, Doctor Sage. You are looking lovely this evening," he emphasized her title, but gave her a reassuring smirk that served to calm her from worrying over any lingering upset that might've been there. His eyes lingered over her form as he situated one of the plates on hand before her; he noticed a subtle blush sweep over heightened cheekbones.

She tore her gaze from him and glanced down at the entrée, "It looks delicious."

Alana spoke up as he rounded the table to adorn the empty space before her with a platter, "_Always _is. What would you expect from someone like Hannibal, anyway?"

Hannibal's coy smile remained in place as he looked over to address Scarlett, "Alana is fond of sycophancy. She believes such flattery to be the only way to acquire an additional portion."

The brown-haired woman laughed, "It works."

He'd settled a plate in front of Will, who Scarlett immediately identified as a quiet person. Sharp, but quiet nonetheless.

"How are you feeling?" the accented voice inquired.

"Great, Doctor," he'd murmured, "This smells… wonderful."

Scarlett was surprised when the psychiatrist rested the final plate upon his arm beside her at the table, leaving the head bare. He'd settled next to her so that the pair of them sat facing both Alana and Will with mixed expressions. Hannibal's indecipherable one, laced with an ever-constant smirk - and Scarlett's polite façade that was unable to conceal a newly afflicted flush.

She'd felt a swirling in her mind, though they were dining in the next instant – Scarlett took a moment to decipher just what lied on the plate before reaching for a fork. She'd prodded the little piece of fried, darkened meat; it appeared glazed over with some sort of thickened broth. She brought the savory piece to her lips, feeling a burning gaze on her as she ate it but continued to look straight on.

It warmed her. It was one of the most delicious things she'd ever consumed.

"What is this?"

"Poultry."

"Really?" Scarlett felt herself prodding it once more before taking another small bite and swallowing, "The texture is difficult to..."

"_Liver,_" he enunciated, firmly, "That must be what you are detecting. Do you enjoy it?"

Scarlett glanced over to him, noticing the rigid posture he kept when he dined – his head, however, was inclined her direction.

"Absolutely. Thank you," she spoke, softly. He seemed to beam at her.

"It is my pleasure."

The four continued to go on in conversation. Scarlett noticed that Alana and Hannibal were the ones who comprised the majority of it – they were both charismatic people, though sort of at the end of the spectrum. Alana was much more inviting – Hannibal was able to capture attention for no good reason other than the fact that his persona demanded it.

Will had been as quiet as she. He was mostly observant, his eyes falling upon her and other people around the table quite often but they did not linger for long. He'd only spoken to her asking about her teaching position - to which he replied that he'd also taught on the profession level. She'd made a joke about the differences between college students and FBI trainee's, forcing him to turn to the side and allow a timid laugh. It caught the attention of everyone at the table, making them smile in response. He'd such an addicting sort of laughter.

Everything had been going smoothly. Hannibal Lecter had left and returned from the room to dish out their dessert.

"Hannibal. This is not a French apple tart, is it?"

He was beside Scarlett once more, nodding, "Indeed it is. You have guessed without even a taste – impressive of you."

Alana grinned and turned to Will, "_This_ is what I was talking about the other day, remember when…"

The redhead was unable to concentrate on Alana's words, considering the psychiatrist's hand had suddenly decided to rest upon her thigh.

Drawing in a sharp breath, the fork in hand fell from her fingers and clattered loudly upon the plate. The distraction sent every pair of eyes her way.

There was a lingering silence until Alana's head tilted slightly. Scarlett's bottom lip was trembling and her mouth was slightly ajar.

"Scarlett, what's wrong?"

The dryness in her throat was building as his hand remained in place. His thumb brushed lightly up and down against her skin. The motion was undetectable to the now alerted gazes of both Will Graham and Alana Bloom.

"I'm… I..." she began, looking straight ahead, before the good doctor himself spoke up.

"Doctor Sage? What's happened?"

Astonished, clouded eyes forced themselves his direction.

"Are you going to be all right?"

Everything about his voice reflected sincerity. He appeared just as surprised as the other two. Realizing this was being done intentionally, confusion fully took over as she shook her head back at him timidly, a stray tear making its way down her cheek.

He feigned a sigh of concern, before tutting at her, "Perhaps you should go and rinse your face, Doctor Sage. Some cool water would soothe you."

"I'll run you a glass of water – "Alana had insisted just as Hannibal lifted another palm to silence her, appearing to want to deal with his patient himself.

Scarlett's form was still shaky when he suddenly released his hold on her and stood, offering a hand for her to take as he did so. She stared at him before swallowing and adopting a grimace, jutting out of her chair and causing it to topple over behind her. The psychiatrist gave her a questioning look before gesturing to the hallway behind him.

"It is the second door to your left. Please take your time… I apologize if something from this evening has distressed you."

Scarlett stood awkwardly for a moment, glancing over at Will and Alana's still taken aback expressions before turning away from all three and hurrying down the hallway the good doctor had pointed out.

The three left in the room remained silent until the resounding snap of a bathroom door was heard.

"What the_ hell_ was that about?"

"She is dealing with a lot, at the moment," the psychiatrist's expression inexpressive and taut as he replied.

Alana crossed her arms, glancing over at the brown haired man beside her, "Didn't expect that sort of reaction. I thought Jack gave you the all-clear with her."

Will frowned, "I didn't _think_ it was that bad. She's a –a teacher for God's sake. She hasn't done that before in a public place, I'm guessing."

The woman had a puckered brow, "Well Jesus, Will. That_ just_ happened."

He blinked and shook his head before glancing over to the standing doctor. "People _don't _deal with loss like that. There's something else wrong with her."

Both sitting individuals stared at the doctor.

"I cannot jeopardize the confidentiality between Doctor Sage and myself."

Alana's brow quirked further up. Will looked uneasy as he held the doctor's serious glare.

"Obviously, she is not capable of assisting on the case. I have said this before. Perhaps now you'll believe that fully."

"… Should I go and help her? Make sure she's going to be fine?" Alana asked. Hannibal Lecter shook his head.

"That is unnecessary, Doctor Bloom. I think it might be best if you two were to leave, however. She is most likely mortified by her behavior in front of the pair of you and might become calm should I tell her you've left."

Will and Alana looked at one another before easing out of their seats without a word. Hannibal turned to pick up the chair that had fallen to the floor, pushing it back into its precise place against the table before accompanying the pair to the door.

They'd left together, both thanking him for the delicious entrées and asking that he tell Scarlett _"goodbye, and that it had been nice meeting her"._

The room quieted significantly as he stood alone in the foyer.

Then the sound of sobbing reached acute senses. Adjusting the tie that had fallen out of place at some point in the past few minutes, he turned his attention to the hallway. Silent steps were taken as he prowled towards the direction of Scarlett Sage, a small smirk evident as the distance between himself and the redhead came to a close.


	6. Chapter 6

A mess of hair was pulled back and away from a distraught face. She'd done as exactly as he suggested – or rather, _told _her, in that calculating and impassive way of his. But now the woman couldn't help herself, with her back bent over into the sunken vanity of the guest bath. Sobs wracked through her frail form; running water served to distort the noise. Although she'd tried her best to silence herself, the hot torrents of sadness ran down her cheeks, mingling with an emotion of angst that caused audible gasps to release and echo against the walls of the room.

It didn't make sense. He was supposed to be helping her. Everyone had such wonderful things to say about him… which felt like evidence to her that his actions were out of the norm. This had to be personal, on some level, with his scheming agenda and unhealthy fixation on intentionally making her uncomfortable.

The other times had been private – some sort of experiment, right?

This occurrence overstepped a boundary.

He'd ridiculed her – her covert _condition _- in public. Purposefully. His reasons for doing so were indefinite. She inwardly shook her bemused head, reevaluating her word choice: inexcusable.

The knock on the door was so light that she hadn't heard it over herself and the streaming sink. She looked into the mirror over the vanity, jumping when she noted the sliver of a cracked door and the good doctor's form lingering in place. The brief moment of eye contact sent a bolt of dread down her spine before she spun around.

"Get _out!_" her voice cracked in an instant, no longer able to carry her pretense. The man had opened the door more fully, but lingered in the frame of it as he took in her comment. His eyes narrowed lightly and his lips pursed, but still he remained without a word – letting the sound of Scarlett's shuddering breaths hang in the air between them.

"Did you… didn't you hear me?" she quieted, suddenly remembering the man's aptitude for politeness when she added, "Please go away."

He crossed his arms, allowing the side of his body to recline a bit against the edge of the doorframe as he watched her. The woman appeared completely shaken; the trembling was most notable on the tips of her fingers that shook on her side. Her face was a mixture of mortification and resentment. Caplets of water under her eyes smudged the dark makeup there, making her appear weary. His stare continued to push her unease.

"Will you just…"

"Do not forget whose house you are in, Ms. Sage."

She caught her breath, blinking her eyes before another tear hidden amongst thick lashes began to fall, "Ex - excuse me?"

"I confess I've done something quite unfair at your expense, but please be kind enough to remember the hospitality that has been extended to you."

The corners of her mouth fell further, "Hospitality?" she paused, with widened eyes, "You just _humiliated_ me in front of them! Probably for - for no good reason other than to screw with me!"

Hannibal pressed a thin set of lips together more firmly before replying, "I assure you what was done served a purpose that extended beyond that of disturbing you."

She turned her head to the side in disbelief; closing green eyes and opening them back up once more. "Then why?"

"Enlightenment."

Her reply was a confused look of disdain, to which he raised a brow and explained further.

"I needed to gauge your ability to cope with physical contact while in a public setting. I would have made you aware of this beforehand, though knowing that would have of course clouded your natural receptors and consequently invoked a different response from you."

By the time he'd gotten past the first sentence, Scarlett's face was scrunched up in distaste, "That's… cruel."

"I'm sorry. This gathering seemed the opportune place to attempt it. And as I know both Will and Alana, I am certain I can correct any fallen opinion they may have of you."

She shook her head, eyes afflicted. "Maybe you ought to have gotten up to do that in the middle of my lecture – You know, to try and see if you could get me _fired."_ she snapped.

He took to uncrossing his arms and regaining his full height as he stood tall once again. "There's no need to be discourteous, Ms. Sage. I will correct – "

"And it's not _miss…_" she murmured, almost stubbornly. It caused a flicker of both irritation and amusement to cross his features.

He nodded, "Everything will be dealt with accordingly."

She turned, flicking off the running faucet before glancing at his rigid position in the mirror. Then she was facing him once more, having adopted a passive glare.

"I don't think so. I won't be continuing on with our sessions," she conveyed flatly, grabbing her purse from off of the sink.

"Really." a monotone, yet silky reply mused.

Scarlett blinked. "Yes. I'll just… speak with Jack Crawford tomorrow for an alternative course."

"Doctor Sage," he addressed her calmly, stopping her in her tracks at she approached the doorframe. He made no point to move as he stood in her way. "I will be able to help you. It is a process. It takes time, just as any other form of treatment would."

Tilting her head, she reflected coolly, "Even though my daughter is dead I still have plenty of responsibilities. I can't function if I have some looming worry in the back of my mind brought on by your _treatment_."

"Is it not your wish to get better?

"I don't think we see eye-to-eye on what it means for me to get better, Dr. Lecter."

He did not vocalize a reply. She waited before him with silent tension until his form decided to shift just out of her way. His impassive gaze was sewn upon her as the redhead began to glide past him – heels clicked against the polished hallway flooring as she walked towards the front of the grand home intent on reaching the foyer, then the parking lot, and then her townhouse.

Scarlett didn't have time to react to the rough grasp that had landed upon her head and shoulder before her body collided with the side of the wall in the next instant – the harsh snap would have sent her spiraling to the ground were it not for the strong set of hands pinning her up against the hall.

Her slur was inaudible as she was turned to face him; the backs of bare shoulders were pressed into the wall as his form pressed into hers. Hannibal scanned the cat eyes that gleamed in bewilderment before him, as if to identify just how affected she was by the blow.

"How _dazed _you look, Ms. Sage."

Her mind raced at his light hiss – her eyes were wide in fright at his proximity, but there was also the building pressure of ache that begged her eyelids to fall despite it.

Ivory skin crawled as hot breath laced the side of her neck. "You are much like a rabbit – heart beating frantically at the sight of the vulture."

Hannibal Lecter's lips lingered just beside her jaw line as he spoke. The psychiatrist noticed her head had lulled off to the opposite side and he heard the light whimper of her response.

"Delicate little thing – you have no idea how much you _need _my help," lips brushed lightly over her skin. He felt a meek force on his chest. Small hands pushed feebly against the lapels of his suit jacket.

Her eyes were closed, "_Stop_."

"I cannot."

After a short pause, Hannibal drew back slightly to look at her expression. Tension was written across her features despite her lids being held shut. Her defense – blocking him out. The woman seemed prone to it.

She grew heavier in his grasp. The frail hands upon his torso fell to her sides. Trembles that coursed through her body calmed against his. Likewise, the quickened pulse began to subside to one of normality. The redhead was perhaps only a second away from fainting altogether and he took the opportunity to admire the etched-in look of solace sprung from fear as she settled in unconscious.

Heeled feet left the floor as the good doctor swept her into his hold, the contents of a fallen purse lingered on the hardwood and Hannibal made a mental note to clean up the awry mess.

The psychiatrist moved silently with her through the darkened household, soon reaching one of several parlors before lowering her still body onto the rise of a velvet sofa. He disappeared into the halls of his home once again, coming back only with a sleek box of medical supplies.

He lowered himself on one knee so that he was at her side, rummaging through the open box with precise fingers until he drew out a white cloth and a small bottle of clear liquid. The cap was unscrewed and the cloth doused before his fingers traced the length of her upper arm, deciding on a placement. Hannibal dabbed an unblemished spot of skin in between her shoulder and elbow then turned to draw out another vial and syringe, flicking the tip of the needle and scrutinizing it with a professional eye as he angled the injection and depressed the plunger.

The needle was pulled from her, leaving the smallest trace of blood to linger upon the surface of her skin. The corner of his mouth twitched at the sight. An urge to capture the droplet with his forefinger was dismissed as he swept away the trace with a cloth and placed a small bandage over the area.

His eyes lifted to her face, now quiet and vacant – similar to his own.

Hannibal noted the curve of full lips and how they settled into a pout as she slept. Tresses of hair framed her face like a fiery mane and caused half of her forehead to be covered by the tousled locks. He frowned slightly as he noticed a growing discoloration there, using his fingertips to brush the skin as he moved errant strands of hair out of the way. A greenish hue was beginning to darken and he tutted to himself over the bruise.

"Fragile _Scarlett._ So sensitive."

He'd taken the time to smooth petroleum over the forming contusion, laying another bandage over the area. She didn't shift in her drug-induced sleep, as he expected, and he knew she would remain that way for hours on end. After he had finished treating her, he tilted his head lightly at her steady breathing, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the stained movement of muscles in her throat, and the protruding clavicle set below pallid skin. He smirked lightly down at her before pushing his form up from the floor and flicking off the antiquated lamp on the table beside her.

Hannibal left thinking of the porcelain comprising fine china, the delicacy of petals that formed a rose, and the sensitivities that lined a metaphorical heart. His final musings set on the woman resting upon his divan. The internal reflection left him with a sensible conclusion.

More often than not, the most fragile things in this world are quite pretty.

* * *

Warmth awoke her. The woman shifted under the cover of a blanket and her nose twitched against the fabric. The room was dark but the few rays of sunlight that managed to escape through pulled curtains alerted her of day. As her eyes adjusted, she was alerted of the fact that she was not at home.

"_Shit_," she mumbled to herself, swinging her legs out from underneath the cover and allowing her feet to hit the floor. Her mind was rushing to comprehend just how she'd managed to fall asleep in her psychiatrist's home as a hand went up to her head, feeling the ache of a bruise that she could not remember having obtained. Her eyes darted to the end of the couch, where her shoes and purse rested in neat unison.

"Good Morning, Dr. Sage. I trust you slept well," a cultivated voice cut through the air – Scarlett's attention went to the suited man entering the room, tray in hand. He was wearing a warm smile.

"I feel horrible," she stated bluntly, as she was far from refined in the morning. "What am I doing here?"

He smirked, resting the tray beside her. She glanced over to it – an entrée of eggs, toast, and strips of bacon. Juice accompanied it.

"You would not remember, of course – you took quite a spill last night. You had a concussion; probably still do."

Hey eyes widened, "Oh, my _God_! I'm missing classes!"

Hannibal laughed lightly, holding up a hand to calm her as she made an attempt to stand, "I took care of it. You're afforded the right to miss one day of lessons after such an injury. I have sent in your Doctor's Note personally."

"… You didn't have to do that. I'm sure I'm fine."

"But you most certainly are not. You will have to take it easy for a few days."

She tried to smile weakly, but one of her hands remained glued to the side of her head.

"I must've fallen pretty hard, huh? It really stings."

Hannibal gestured with a hand towards the tray, "There are two pills alongside your plate. They will dull your pain. You should take them with food, so please – eat up."

Scarlett glanced over, grabbing the glass of juice while tracing the pills with her forefinger. "Prescription?"

"Yes. A simple anti-inflammatory and a benzodiazepine. I will be sending a portion home with you that you will need to continue taking," his accented tone replied as he settled into a chair at the side of her.

"One of those is for anxiety," she pointed out.

"Not exclusively. Though as this is a head injury it would be in your best interest to alleviate any pain of the mind as well."

She bit the inside of her mouth before capturing the two pills, swallowing them after receiving a nod of approval from her doctor, and swilling down the orange drink right after.

"Now eat," he insisted, and she grabbed a piece of toast and began taking small bites as he watched her.

"Thanks."

"Whatever for?"

The woman would have rolled her eyes would it have not hurt, "Taking care of me. Last night's a complete blur. I probably ruined your evening."

"I hardly believe your accident would constitute any sort of imposition on my part. I am glad to do it."

"Still. I feel like an idiot. I'll have to get going," she said, noticing a look in his eye that flickered over the tray in hand before adding, "After I finish this, of course."

The corner of his mouth quirked up just a bit, "I have obligations today. I will drop you off at your home when you have finished," her mouth opened in reluctance just as he threw in, "You are in no position to drive, Doctor Sage."

Sighing as she chomped on a piece of bacon, she agreed with him. He clasped his hands together and rested them on his knees in patience, listening to her compliments about how good the breakfast was and how kind it was for him to consider her. He grinned and nodded and feigned interest – instead focusing on physical and emotional changes in her behavior. She seemed more _comfortable_. As she would continue to become, he noted to himself.

"What are you doing today, Doctor?"

He paused at the question suddenly concerning him, "I am accompanying Will Graham today on his case – you met him last night," he reminded her, noticing the look of distance she adopted at his mention.

"Oh, right. That's the same case that…?"

"Yes," came the short, precise reply.

"… Good luck."

The woman before him expressed yet another light sigh as she continued to eat, though Hannibal cocked his head a bit at her comment. "How are you dealing with the most disconcerting things?"

She paused mid bite, "You mean Julie?"

The doctor nodded and she spoke quietly, "Her funeral. I think it's two days from now… then again I might not be in the right frame of mind."

"It will be easier to bear, afterwards. Your grief," his expression showed a trace of concern as opposed to impassiveness. It was difficult to notice, but she did. It began to erase the usual uneasiness she felt in these discussions. She settled back into the sofa, eyes locked on his as she considered him.

"Yes. I guess it will be."


	7. Chapter 7

"_Twice a day, with food and drink - not when you are feeling symptoms. The benzodiazepine can produce nasty side effects if taken too frequently or infrequently."_

"_It sounds… sort of - dangerous?"_

_He smirked lightly, casting her comment aside, "All medication carries a risk. I am simply making you aware of it. I trust you to be careful."_

"_Of course."_

_Hannibal Lecter nodded, "Good. I'll be calling you later today and we can schedule a time to retrieve your car."_

_She closed her eyes for a moment. She was tired even though she'd slept away ten hours the night before. His accented tone brought her forth once again._

"_Doctor Sage?"_

"_Yes," she replied, quickly, " I'll be home, waiting by the phone."_

* * *

One pale palm was upturned, cradling two little pills; a small blue tablet and a yellow capsule. She grimaced at the resurfacing feeling of pain that throbbed against her skull. It wasn't a sharp pain like a knife-inflicted wound, but more comparable to the dull pounding of a hammer against her head over and over again.

Scarlett winced as she threw the tiny drugs back with a swift movement of her hand before drowning them in a pool of water, licking her mouth free of the droplets that had managed to drip down her lips in the process.

Shuffling through the rooms of her townhouse, Scarlett still felt a little weak and threw a hand against the wall every few steps to steady herself. Hannibal had assured her this would be the case, reminding her to stay off of her feet for as long as possible and to keep her head propped up were she to fall asleep.

Her house was dim. The glow of the lights had made her migraine worse and so she decided to flick them off. The red flush of a flashing light caught her attention as she settled into her living room, pressing a frail forefinger down upon the button of her answering machine. She had only one new message.

"Hello, Ms. Sage. This call is regarding Julie Sage who is now at the Chatman-Harris home. Please return the call when you receive this message so that we are able to set up an appointment time for any last minute preparations…" there was a hesitant pause, as if the feminine voice took a moment to glance down and check on something before she started back up again.

"Just a reminder, the funeral is set for the sixth at ten o'clock. Give us a call or feel free to walk in. We wish you the warmest of regards and plan to hear from – _message deleted_."

She'd clicked the button, closing her eyes at the annoying voice of the automated woman as she did so.

It wasn't long before Scarlett had collapsed into one of the plush armchairs of her den, a glass of red wine in hand. She threw the drink back with no interest in savoring the flavor.

* * *

"Will."

The warmth of the psychiatrist's hand fell upon his shoulder, serving to shake the young agent from his trance. The two were making their way down the staircase of a duel-storied, white stoned dwelling nestled snuggly amidst green forestry. But the gorgeous home felt eerie and empty in spite of the vista.

"Sorry."

Will's murmur was quiet, blue eyes blinking rapidly in that moment.

Hannibal Lecter surveyed the young man's internal plight, only removing his steadying hold when they reached the landing of cement. Will Graham swallowed, wishing he'd asked for water from the pair of afflicted people - the parents of Caroline Beatty, that is. But instead, he decided to wait. Having already asked them everything his mind could possibly conjure about their now deceased daughter, he felt that asking for something to parch the thirst that grew in a drying throat seemed almost _taboo_ at the time.

"Are you not proud of yourself, Will? I think that you should be."

With a grimace, he looked off to the side and pocketed his hands in his cargos, replying with, "Proud of drilling a couple over the loss of their kid? Yeah – I'm really proud."

"The empathy you share with them clouds your sense of achievement," Hannibal pointed out, the pair coming to a standstill in front of the parked car. "You should be proud, considering your previous opposition."

"_Maybe_ if it had led to something – which it didn't," his reply weary as he shook his head, running a hand back through wind-blown hair, "People are just so… complicated."

Hannibal dipped his head, "As opposed to straightforward. I suppose both of our jobs would be much easier were it that way…" he paused, "– then again, there would be no riddle to solve… no disease to diagnose."

"I don't find those things to be as rewarding as you think."

"… Of course you do. Your ability to face challenges such as this is a remarkable thing. It is your gift, despite whatever curse-like stigma you have attached to it."

"You're always reassuring me," the agent replied in a blunt tone as he made his way to the passenger side of the car, clicking open the handle. "I'm… _realizing_ that none of this is ever going to go away. At least not entirely."

The psychiatrist didn't speak up until the two were sitting side by side in the automobile. "The crimes, or the nightmares?"

"Both."

He pursed his lips, "You cannot deny that you are making progress and will continue to do so. The monsters will fade into the background, eventually – like white noise."

Will shifted, "But they'll still _be_ there."

"In their defeated form, perhaps - and is that not a triumph?"

The agent let out an aggravated sigh, shooting his gaze out of the window to watch as the scene outside began to blur once the car was in motion. He drummed the fingers of his right hand absentmindedly along the armrest alongside his window. The repetitive sound caught the ear of Hannibal Lecter, who glanced over at him as he continued on with the action. The older blonde decided against pointing out the irritable motion that gradually began to annoy his sharp senses.

"So what monsters bother you?"

The good doctor paused, considering his answer. Of course, he'd been posed the question before more than once. Being an esteemed psychiatrist simply carried along with it the burden of being prodded by other professionals. He was usually coy with his responses, adopting a light smile while never allowing even a spec of tangible information from his past to fall from thinned lips.

But Will was neither legally nor professionally an appointed therapist. The young agent was lost, and at times searched for answers through the smallest of inquisitions. And while Hannibal Lecter wished to keep the most intimate and scheming machinations of his mind far separate from young Will, the desire to fuel the fire of the agent's gift moved him to utter a constructive response, as usual.

"Monsters, as simple as they appear are quite often complex and can cause trepidation, Will. Still I have managed to control my fears."

"How?"

The psychiatrist exhaled briefly before drawing his lips together, "I have changed the way I think about fear."

Will was staring at him quite blatantly at that response before the good doctor in tern decided to throw a look over at the adjacent man, whose eye contact fritted away in that moment. Hannibal smirked before continuing.

"Make it a source of fascination. The same things that lead us to feel fear also incite feelings of exhilaration or even passion. You must reframe your terrors in a positive light and acknowledge the thrill they can offer."

"So…" the young man replied, a blank look written across his features as he uttered doubtfully, "I should be _thrilled_."

Hannibal chuckled lightly at his tone, tilting his head as he mused, "You should feel powerful, because that is what your ability has the potential to harbor. Your fear is attached to your gift like a guidepost - a red flag that warns you when something needs attention. Once the discomfort of the initial wave of fear passes, you shall solve your mysteries and defeat your demons."

Will Graham took in his doctor's words, eventually adopting a light grin before sardonically remarking, "You see a lot, Doctor Lecter… considering the fact that you don't seem like the sort of person who'd have much experience with fear."

_Hannibal withheld a scoff of amusement. Dealing with it – delivering it – where did the difference lie, really?_

"Yes. I handle the horrors well. All the more reason for you to trust my judgment, hmm?"

Will stifled a nervous laugh that was caught up in his still dried throat. His psychiatrist's answer was delivered with playful sarcasm, which was reinforced by the subtle smile that graced his lips. His eyes, however, did not assume that smile – instead adopting a serious glint. The two differing expressions puzzled him, and his brows furrowed as he sent his gaze towards the opposing window once again.

"I… I trust your judgment, Doctor Lecter."

Hannibal picked up on his counterpart's quirky apprehension, but continued to smirk subtly at the man nonetheless.

"As you should, Will. I am not only your psychiatrist; I am your friend as well."

* * *

A swirling sound of running water sliced through the evening's silence. Senses were hazed as the woman lowered herself into the hot water. The scorching redness of aggravated skin did not prompt her to leave as she rested her back against the slope of the porcelain tub. Her eyes closed and Scarlett began to breathe in the dense air – the moistness soothed her throat and worked to lift the aftertaste of bitter alcohol. A foot served to push the handle of the flowing nozzle upright once her chin rested upon the surface of the steaming water, causing the stream to stop.

On the verge of finding her ease, a trace of tension lined her forehead when she heard the ongoing_ ring_ of her phone downstairs. She suppressed a growl in the back of her throat, closing her eyes tighter as she waited for the insatiable noise to pass. Scarlett wanted silence – wanted to be _calm_. She wanted everything resting outside of the realm of tranquility to leave her be, particularly with what she was expected to deal with tomorrow.

Release was what she needed, and it would soon take her. But of course, those memories would also come - vibrant and amplified and even more intense than she would have cared to experience them.

* * *

"_He did it again."_

_The shiner painted across her left eye was an unconcealed burst of green and purple. An older woman shook her head, releasing a saddened sigh as she allowed her own frail hand to cradle the cheek of the young redhead before her._

"… _You do provoke him, dear."_

_Scarlett didn't bother to feign shock. It was the sort of response she was used to; a hurtful comment masked by the tender compassion of a worried touch as she tutted disapproval. _

"_If he does it again, I swear… I swear to God, I'll… I'll – "_

"_Calm your nerves. You are not an irrational woman," the older woman pointed out, the many lines under her eyes growing deeper with the look of upset. She pushed a glass with a bit of brandy into the redhead's grip, almost forcefully._

"_Can I stay here with you?"_

_There was barely a moment's hesitation before the reply of, "No, sweetheart," came._

_She felt the backs of her teeth grit across one another, keeping her from arguing out loud as she brought the rim of a tobacco-stained glass to her lips. The taste was vile and settling all at once. She put the glass down lightly upon the checker-clothed dining room table. A tear escaped the corner of her eye before she could wipe it away from the older woman's lingering gaze._

"_Stop it, Scarlett."_

_Swallowing the harsh liquid and emotion back, she nodded. The older woman sighed, sending a glance over to the silent basinet resting upon one of the wooden chairs of her kitchen table._

"_You have a child to think about. And a child's worth ten of the father."_

"_I don't want her around him."_

_The aged, graying woman tilted her head, "Why? He hasn't lifted a finger in harm against her."_

"_But…"_

"_And you'd willingly tear her family apart on the off chance that he would?"_

_Scarlett was silent as the other woman in the room fixed a trained gaze on her once again. Racking her brain, she recalled that this conversation always went the same way. _

"_Think about your child, dear. Do not deny her by putting yourself first. Family is all about sacrifice."_

_Scarlett's fingers traced the pattern of the tablecloth, listening only halfway. She scratched a spot absentmindedly – it looked like a stain left behind by a coffee mug. Absentmindedly, she pushed the little glass away from her setting towards the other woman who offered a wry smile before refilling the cup with the bronze liquor._

_"I'll call a cab for you," she insisted, pushing out her chair and walking over to a hanging phone on a hook. Scarlett took her second shot before turning to her purse – rummaging through the cash she had on hand. The click of a phone and sound of the other woman's heels in motion sent her glance upwards._

"_It'll be waiting for you shortly at the corner. Go straight home – it will be getting late soon and you mustn't make it worse."_

_She shook her head, daring to disagree, "It'll be worse."_

_The woman pursed her lips, turning to her refrigerator and opening up the highest door before pulling out a paper-wrapped package. She set it in front of her guest after shredding the outermost covering. _

"_Ice it."_

_Scarlett picked up the raw bit of meat with a look of distaste, reluctantly pressing the iced steak against the sore of her eye. _

"_Remember that he's done nothing truly wrong, sweetheart. He is your husband – you are his wife. Make up with him and move on, as all women do."_

_The pale woman huffed, "I make up with him everyday… he doesn't care. I never feel any satisfaction."_

_The older of the two smiled lightly, pulling a roll of foil out from under the counter before extending it to her troubled daughter, "Then I suggest you go home and cook him this very steak, dear. Create your own satisfaction – though remember to remain silent."_

* * *

Hannibal was irritated and it showed; which was an oddity for one who usually portrayed nothing but that of the utmost collection. Though to his justification, the doctor had phoned his patient three times that day without a single word of reply; an action that was in his opinion merely common courtesy.

It was evening and the blonde man wasn't one for late night house calls; unless of course he'd planned to call upon a particularly rude individual who'd had the misfortune of giving off a terrible first impression. He'd smirked internally at the thought, dismissing the redhead from the most immediate placement of that category.

His frail, crimson-haired patient had left her car in his drive and she'd agreed to contact him later in the day so that she'd be able to retrieve it. Of course, she'd failed to live up to her end of the arrangement and so Hannibal Lecter turned a sharp corner onto the woman's street. He frowned as he pulled into the drive of her two-story townhouse, a shade of yellow that reflected the moonlight well in even when submerged in darkness. And the dimness was the reason why his frown remained – it was only just past ten and the entire building, set aside a single room upstairs, was doused in black.

He was tall and his strides were long; approaching the front door of her home in mere seconds before knocking firmly upon it and clicking the button of a doorbell in unison.

Several minutes of stone silence earned a sigh of exasperation from the older man as he pressed his lips together and sent his gaze upward, eyeing the glint of light illuminating the room abovehead. He then looked down, uncrossing the clasped hands before his form as he bent on one knee to lift the corner of the welcome mat to no avail. His eyes scanned the most immediate area quickly – assured that the once frequent presence of a teenager roaming in and out on her own accord would leave behind some trace of a key. The potted plant that sat alongside seemed clear of any disruption. The window frame beside the door was still and unaltered as well. He then stood at full stature, straightening his suit before letting his fingers graze the wall-mounted, black mailbox. Without difficulty, they dipped into the contents – eventually fishing out the sought-after tiny copper key in the very corner of the rectangular box.

The thrust of copper into the brass door handle was a quick one. The click of the door's release followed and Hannibal Lecter stepped into her home in silence before pushing the door back against it's frame noiselessly.

He smelt several things. The lingering smoke of incense, the floral aroma of a light fragrance of which he placed to be that of _White Diamonds _within a moment, and the waft of an open bottle of wine – a final scent that caused his expression to narrow.

It took no time at all for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the home. Admittedly the urge to take in the surroundings of his most peculiar patient was immense. But that would be of no good conduct, and getting caught snooping around the woman's home certainly wasn't the plan he had in mind.

Hannibal Lecter called for her as he approached a slender, wooden staircase.

"_Miss Sage?"_

No reply hit him besides that of silence. The psychiatrist's brows remained furrowed as he ascended the case of stairs silently. Repetitive dripping moved his senses just before the sliver of light from a partially closed door caught his eye. He approached it, grasping the handle firmly before calling out her name a second time as he pushed open the flimsy piece of wood.

His eyes narrowed as he took in her still form, an ivory blur that rested among still, soap-clouded waters. Her almond eyes were closed and her mouth fell below the surface of the water. The entirety of her face turned to the side as she slept, and he noted the light flare of her nose as she breathed in and out in slow succession.

The doctor's expression tightened and he averted his eyes from her still form, approaching the basin adjacent to the tub as he began to run cool water. His sight left the sink for only a moment to notice a washcloth resting on a mounted shelf, which he took and began to soak and twist under the faucet. With a final wring, he inhaled a breath and lowered himself on a knee before her upper body, placing the cool wet rag along her forehead. He noticed the tremble of her lips despite the stillness of her form.

"_Scarlett, Scarlett… what sort of turmoil are you battling?"_

He could see she was beginning to wake; the skin outlining her set of eyes began to move. Expectantly, he kept one hand across her forehead, placing the other under her chin as he lifted her mouth from the confines of water entrapment. While she was likely to splash him either way, he preferred that her mouth didn't splatter him all the same.

"_Wake up,"_ his whisper was soft, bidding her, causing her to shift beneath his grip. Scarlett's eyes fluttered opened, catching his gaze before her mouth went agape and she felt a scream catch in her throat – the shock only allowing her to choke on her sudden intake of air.

"Try and steady your nerves," he mused firmly, keeping his eyes locked on her pair of confused orbs, "I am afraid you've slipped into shock. I could smell the alcohol from your front door, Miss Sage."

She didn't register all of his words, though _shock_ and _alcohol_ stood out to her. She blinked, crossing a pair of shaking arms together. _"W-what?"_

The man pursed his lips at her, "We need to ease you out of this water. You are severely dehydrated. I am going to help you, alright?"

His words panicked her, and she didn't have time to argue before his grip relaxed from her and he'd left her side, returning a moment later with a folded towel she'd set out.

He was stern as he spoke, "I will wrap you in this once I've lifted you out – if you can manage to wrap your arm around my neck please do so."

He paused when she tiredly shook her head in reluctance, recoiling from his impending form. Her actions were curious for that of a grown, dizzied woman and he contemplated the depth of her fears – they were distorted by the alcohol, the drugs, and the haze, but present nonetheless. Fear had a tendency to change depending on such alternations – for this woman they were constant – deeply ridden and severe.

"Please trust me, Ms. Sage," he insisted quietly, extending his suited arm out to her leveled form once more. She sighed, twitching as she felt her figure lift from the still-hot water beneath her a moment later. Scarlett shivered with fever as the intense warmth left her – gracious when she felt the spread of towel envelope her form – even more so once she felt the warmth of a mattress meet her back and the hands that had delicately carried her form with ease leave her.

She was quiet, leveling her breathing as she waited for her psychiatrist to return with a freshly doused, cool wet cloth. He placed it on her forehead and she did not flinch away.

"I think I will have to take you to the hospital…The depressant effect of alcohol intake in combination with the high temperatures of water, as well as that medication -" he attempted to explain both calmly and quietly before she cut him off as she shook her head.

"No. I don't want to."

"…You are acting foolish."

Scarlett shook her head once again, with more vigor, "I don't want to… Jack will hear and – and…"

He sighed, "You are still intoxicated, Ms. Sage. You are imagining the outcomes of things much worse than they will end up being."

"Jack Crawford will… think I'm doing it on purpose. He'll mess everything up," she sputtered, eyes fixed on the dimmed light abovehead. The cooling fan swirled above her as the good doctor flicked it on in an attempt to cool her body temperature.

Hannibal Lecter looked at her passively, pocketing the drenched hands and cuffs of his tailored suit in his slacks. "What is it that you would prefer me to do?"

She was quiet, biting the inside of her lip. "You could stay here."

The psychiatrist quirked a brow, "You'd favor I stay the night over a quick stop to an emergency room?"

"… I - I don't want anyone to know."

He was quiet, tilting his head as he observed her. She fidgeted a bit before adding, "You… could sleep – "

"I do not sleep much, Ms. Sage."

She quieted. He exhaled, but placed one of those thin smirks across his previously serious features.

"If that is what you wish, I shall monitor you for the night."

Scarlett offered a feeble smile in return before a harsh shiver caused her to grimace. She bit her tongue, "Thank you."

"It isn't a problem, Ms. Sage. I will be here if you require anything – do not be afraid to ask."


	8. Chapter 8

The thin fabric of Egyptian cotton was spread across a smaller, outstretched body - her psychiatrist had insisted that only the coverage of a sheet would do for at least a few hours' time. Scarlett's eyes were half-open as she watched the blonde man in her room remove his half drenched jacket, folding it neatly over his arm before laying it to rest upon a corner vanity. He then took to unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt before pacing across the room with silent steps, taking in her following gaze with a tilt of his head.

"You should sleep. I imagine your ears are still ringing."

She admitted he was right, though the pounding in her head had settled somewhat. The doctor kept cooling the washcloth on her forehead every fifteen or so minutes for the past hour in an attempt to soothe the dull pain.

Scarlett kept green orbs locked on his, "I know. It's just difficult to fall asleep with someone else in the room."

He nodded slightly, clasping his hands together, "I understand. It might be more appropriate for me to stay in the hall or one of the adjoining rooms, perhaps."

"No -" she spoke up, a break in her voice noted by the good doctor before she tacked on, "I mean, I'll fall asleep, it just might take a little_… longer_ than usual."

Looking to the side, he seemed to contemplating something silently. His tongue ran over taut lips before he looked back to her and inquired, "You do have tea – yes?"

She hesitated slightly, trying to remember the last time she'd had a cup. Scarlett was more prone to consuming other drinks and highly caffeinated beverages.

"In the cupboard, and I – I _think_ it's green tea. I haven't gotten around to putting any on."

"I assume Merlot must be an easier alternative," he pointed out with a raised brow. She swallowed down a bit of embarrassment at the accusation and lowered her eyes to the cotton sheet.

"Well it's drugstore wine… you can have whatever you want."

"The tea will be fine, I think."

Hannibal took to leaning his form to the side in an attempt to catch her fallen gaze. "Though I do feel we should talk of that other matter… once you are up to it."

The redhead's response was a silent one, though she managed to nod her head slightly and he gave her a reassuring grin, "I will not take long. Call if you need assistance, I am sure that I will hear you."

Hardly a moment passed before long strides guided the man from her room. Scarlett took to sending her averted gaze upwards towards the ceiling, eyes following the circular motion of the ceiling fan for as long as she could manage before growing dizzy and forcing her eyes to shut.

* * *

Hannibal Lecter flicked mounted light-switches on the walls upwards as he made his way downstairs. Scarlett's bedroom had been fairly empty and harbored nothing out of the ordinary; an adequately sized bed he'd set her in with a color scheme that didn't vary far from the beige family, an oak vanity and matching dresser upon which only a necklace and pair of reading glasses laid to rest upon, and a squared, crème lounge chair that sat beside a full length mirror that rivaled even his own height in a far corner.

It didn't surprise the man that her room would be so bare as his mind travelled back to a desk in an atrium free of intimate items. He found quite often that one's surroundings could tell much about the person who dwelled within them. Not to imply that there was not much to say of Scarlett Sage – indeed he suspected the opposite. A lack of personal effects could merely reflect the characteristics of being particular, careful, and resoundingly good at hiding behind her metaphorical veil.

Feeling able to identify with her on the last part quite specifically, he felt a higher regard for the woman. That was something that could be admired from someone like him, and he tossed around his readied hypothesis in his mind as his hand skimmed across the wooden railing of her narrowed staircase until he was met with the landing.

He made his way to kitchen, surveying the walls he passed to note the absence of décor besides that of a few candles and some sort of decorative wreath of prickly fruit hidden within a mess of twigs. It wasn't much considering those few effects encompassed almost the entirety of her first floor.

Stepping onto linoleum, however, there was a notable difference. Unlike the rest of her quaint little house, the kitchen wasn't as devoid of personality. It wasn't desolate or inhumanely minimal. It was comfortable, spacious and seemed to be the most lived-in area of all. It held a color scheme – red and green – and was accented with a mounted clock, freely hanging stainless steel cookware, a quaint bar island. And to his meticulous pleasure, an antiquated-looking spice rack and matching frame lined with cooking wines sat upon a counter as well.

His smirk was subtle as he suppressed a scoff traced with amusement, allowing himself to pick up on a second likeable feature. Admittedly, he appreciated food in the way few others did – a pure form of art and intrigue. Even though he sincerely doubted her level of admiration would rival his own, Hannibal Lecter was relatively pleased with the environment he now stood in.

_Port, Riesling, Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, Italian Vermouth -_

A tanned forefinger fell upon a final bottle of Chianti, to which he pulled out, rotated and removed. Fingertips propped open the already uncorked plug before swirling it a bit to allow the liquor to breathe. His nose took in the bold scent of fruit – cherries and plums, no doubt, before corking the bottle once more and delicately placing it back in its proper position.

Hannibal breathed out – content – before turning to work on his previous endeavor of procuring some tea. The kettle was easy to locate as it was hung carefully abovehead with other steel cookware. Hot water took to boiling upon a gas-ranged stove by the time he'd even managed to locate the tea, which rested at the very back of one of the highest cupboards.

Disappointed to find the tea-bags were an off-brand generic and would have much preferred fresh ingredients, he substituted the contents of the prepackaged herbs with ingredients from her fully stocked and plentiful spice rack – a selection of chicory, ginseng and cinnamon soon began to brew.

One steaming mug of the hot drink soon met his lips. The aroma of his chosen flavor combination satisfied his senses. He carried the cup with precise hands as he left the inviting kitchen, sipping every so often as he quietly surveyed the remainder of her home.

A creak in the floorboard above him sent his eyes skyward. He pursed his lips lightly, deciding upon whether or not a sleeping pill would be safe to administer to her.

Now in the den, the tall man stopped in his tracks as he noticed the first of what he assumed to be the only photograph within the entire home. It was on a table that sat alongside a cushioned chair. After his eyes sought out a coaster for his tea, he picked up the framed piece of glass and eyed it with curiosity.

He could feel the presence of the woman in the room before she had a moment to utter a word.

"I suppose it is your wish to pass out from fatigue, Ms. Sage. Why aren't you resting?"

The words left his lips but he did not turn to her – his eyes were scanning the photograph in hands, a pair of happy, smiling women stood side by side.

"It's almost been a half hour… I didn't know if you needed help – or if you couldn't find something."

He felt his fingers flex lightly over the glass – his thumb brushed against one of the content faces beaming into the flash of camera._ Of course he'd found something._

"What are you looking at?"

He paused, turning to her with the picture still in hand. The room was half-lit and the woman had wrapped the long sheet over her slight form twice over. She was pale naturally – though she looked almost deathly pale against the duel contrasts of the light color sheet and dim surroundings.

"Might I ask who is in this photograph?"

She licked her lips, recognizing what rested in his hands as he turned and uttered calmly, "It's a picture of Julie and I. From last summer."

"Ah," he mused, his eyes taking in the bright redheads. Both shared their wide grins, though unlike her mother Julie was an absolute mess of freckles, her bone structure soft and her set-high hairline revealed a skin tone that rivaled that of a Celtic woman's.

"She's gorgeous, isn't she?"

Hannibal lifted his gaze from the picture a second time, taking in a reserved comment the woman obviously prided herself on – a comment she was desperate to share.

"Very. I suppose she must have earned her beauty from her mother's side," he remarked, the corner of his mouth upturned as he set the photograph back down upon the end table. She reddened slightly, turning her head away from him. He approached her still form that lingered along the wall.

"She was in her junior court for Homecoming – which… I mean – she'd have probably been queen this year if… she'd – "

Hannibal quieted her, a cooing noise breaking his lips as he caught her attention and stood before her. "Of course, Ms. Sage."

She swallowed and he continued on, "Let's get you back upstairs, hmm? I am surprised you managed to get down here in the first place."

"Look – " she stopped him, holding up her hand as he made a move to help ease her from her leaned position against the wall, "You can call me Scarlett if you want to – I was being rude before and – "

"That'd be fine, Scarlett," he spoke over her, dismissive and accepting, seeing a glaze fall over her eyes. He half-expected her to fall flat on her face in her current state, of course, he was at the ready were it to happen.

"Do you need help?"

"I think – " she spoke quietly, edging herself off of the wall with frail elbows before crossing her arms over her sheet-wrapped form, "I can probably make it."

He clung to her like a shadow until she began to climb the railing, the redhead nearly tripping before an arm latched over her, sending the woman's weight upright once again. Hannibal Lecter took in her high gasp and felt her shiver against his touch - but was pleased that she shook it off and offered a nod of thanks as she completed the staircase with cautious steps.

She'd spilled herself back onto the bed, eyes lids drooping from tire and exhaust and begging to close – the woman would have to give in eventually. Hannibal positioned himself in the chair in the corner of the room, hands resting upon one another on his knee as he waited quietly, no flicker of impatience could be seen beneath such indecipherable, sharp features.

"Will you go with me to – to see Julie tomorrow?" her sputter was slurred lightly and she released a yawn.

That sent another wave of curiosity his way. She might as well have invited him to the funeral.

"Wouldn't that be a private matter, Scarlett? I am unsure if I should intrude."

"It'll be quick – I just have to check off on a few things and then you can… take me to my car, right?"

He pressed his lips together, nodding, "If it suits you."

"Okay."

And that word was the end of the conversation. Faint breathing fell into that of a sleeping pattern soon after and Hannibal remained reclined in the seat submerged in darkness after dimming the lights. He didn't mind it – it was calming and furthered his thoughts, of which he always seemed to have many. The cannibalistic psychiatrist had picked up on one thing he intended to reflect on, something of which he was certain, and that was the fact that Scarlett Sage was guilty of having done something quite awful.

* * *

Scarlett felt uncomfortable standing inside the waiting area that was filled with floral scents. The flowers would have relaxed her senses were they not intended for the exclusive purpose of decorating a grave. She shifted and looked to the side; the taller man with angular features looked down at her with a questioning expression.

"You are feeling all right?"

"Yeah," she replied wearily, "It's just all the plants."

"I agree," he paused, acting as though he was just taking in the scent for the first time, "Too many different floral scents all at once – they are overpowering."

She nodded, not wanting to talk into that aspect before looking over to him, "It really shouldn't take long."

As if on cue, a friendly looking woman approached the pair, offering an overly-sweet, practiced smile. Scarlett drew in a breath.

"I'm sorry we've kept you waiting, but we have all the paperwork in order now if you'd like to review it."

Scarlett agreed, following the woman to the desk while Hannibal lingered behind the pair – his hands held a folded jacket over a forearm.

The good doctor watched with interest as the redhead dealt with the other woman, skimming through the pages with quick breaths and nimble fingers, outwardly showing that she was all-too-ready leave and wished to hurry the process.

"A pen?" she'd inquired not long after, taking a blue ballpoint out of the manicured hands of the blonde mortician's assistant.

Hannibal remained still as she finished up, only taking five minutes or so to settle the specifics, costs, and the like. He was almost taken aback when she'd turned around so suddenly, intent-gaze fixed on his dark orbs.

"I'm going to see Julie, now. I know you said it's a private thing, but I wouldn't mind having someone with me – if you don't mind, at least."

"I don't mind," he reciprocated what she'd hoped to hear. He was standing near her form as the two entered the room they were guided to, the caretaker leaving after Scarlett collected an unsteady breath before being able to assure her the dress and hairstyle would do fine for the ceremony.

"I couldn't think of anything that would suit her besides white or green – I went with white," she pointed out unnecessarily, unconsciously flicking her nails together as she stood before the casket with the deathly-silent girl.

Hannibal Lecter wasn't entirely sure of what to say given the state of the woman before him. He simply set his eyes upon the features of the deceased teen. He took in the curve of her form and the way her jaw was set. He contemplated the shape of nose, and the subtle dip of a 'v' that graced the center of her upper lip. Julie's eyebrows were high and arched, somehow delivering to the viewer a comatose preservation of a lifelike characteristic.

It was completely still in the room. The only definite sound was that of Scarlett's bothered breathing pattern. Hannibal looked away from the dead girl and over to the mother.

"I am confused, Scarlett."

She was silent for a moment, as if just realizing he'd spoken up before her expression went blank, "_You're _confused?"

In response, Hannibal nodded tightly, resting a hand absentmindedly upon the wooden casket. "It is rather obvious that you are… distraught."

Scarlett pursed her uneasy lips, the lines in her forehead creasing as she did so. "Given the situation I think it's expected."

"I am somewhat disinclined to agree."

Scarlett swallowed, aggravated by his bluntness, "Doctor Lecter, please. I – I can't deal with this right now. Will you save it for the sessions?"

He shrugged his shoulders lightly, a movement that looked almost foreign on him. "If that is when you would prefer to discuss it."

"Discuss _what?_ My daughter?"

He pursed his lips, "You mean this girl?"

The good doctor took his hand off of the casket's wooden frame, gesturing to the body that lay inside as he spoke. Scarlett cocked her head in confusion, but bit her lip in fear as a passive expression fell into place upon the features of the man before her.

"What do you – "

"_This_ girl," he repeated, sending an unwavering and dark glare her way, "This girl in the casket, Scarlett – is most certainly not your daughter."

Scarlett's dare to snap at him ceased suddenly. The redheaded woman closed her mouth, clamping down harshly as she adopted a hurt, bitter glare.

"Of course, we can discuss this at two o'clock next Tuesday – if you wish."


	9. Chapter 9

Scarlett was breathing heavily, her glare hardening as she noticed what she thought to be the smallest flicker of amusement cross the older man's eyes. Her own orbs narrowed, her mind set on his nonchalant comment about discussing this during their next session.

"Is this a joke to you?"

"Not at all."

He had tilted his head at her with his lips held in his norm of a taut pout. Scarlett's pressing gaze fell to the floor before she abruptly turned on her heel. The good doctor followed her retreating and silent form as she made her way out of the door and through the parking lot. Hannibal contemplated the harsh clicks of her heels against the pavement – her stride was quicker than usual. She was practically stomping until she stopped before his silver vehicle.

"Just take me to my car," she tacked on a forced courtesy, "_Please_."

The psychiatrist hadn't truly expected her to dismiss him as easily as that; much less did he expect the cool and candid tone that had washed over her. Her lips were pressed so harshly against one another that their fullness was replaced by a thin line of agitation.

Now standing in the small parking lot of the funeral home, Hannibal merely nodded and made his way over to the passenger side of his automobile, clicking the handle open and following suit by holding the metal door open for her.

The gesture was nothing less than chivalrous, but Scarlett couldn't help but feel a prick of displeasure at the polite extension of kindness – as if such actions could erase his uttered accusation. She didn't thank him as she sank into leather, hearing the sharp snap of metal closing her off from the outside as she sat inside his vehicle.

Hannibal Lecter didn't push her. Instead, a trained expression remained impassive as he drove and the redhead beside him merely watched the distorted scenery outside of her window as they rode in silence.

* * *

_She was freezing. _

_Rain washed over her hair, turning the reddened curls to a limp mess of frizz. It was dark, bitter, and silent with the exception of her chattering teeth and the persistent pounding of reddening knuckles upon the front door of the home. The interior of the house was dark but a light flicked on several minutes into the reoccurrence of her raucous noise. When the door finally opened she didn't hesitate a moment before stepping inside – the warmth of the home washed over her harshly. The tip of her pale nose and fingers took on a burning splotch of red color._

"_Why did you use the deadbolt? I told you I was working late…" she managed through chattering teeth, flinging a soaking purse onto the table._

_The man's arms were crossed and the facet of anger upon his features seemed everlasting. Finding him in a good mood proved itself a rarity._

"_It's two in the morning. If the kid wasn't up screaming till midnight I might not of forgot about the lock."_

"_Is she asleep now?" _

"_Do you hear her?"_

_Scarlett sighed, slouching over to remove her shoes and running a hand through her matted tresses. _

"_I've got to take a shower," her words weary with tire, "Why don't you go back to sleep and I'll be there soon, okay?"_

_She was off shuffling towards the archway that led out of the living room. Swishing hair left droplets of rainwater on the carpet._

"_What happened to your dress?"_

_Scarlett threw a look over her shoulder back at the man who'd followed her; he was eying a sharp tear in the back of her pencil skirt._

"_I had an accident on the bus," she admitted, turning._

"_Accident?"_

"_I tripped. The driver took off before I got a chance to sit down."_

_He let out a scoff of disbelief and shook his head, "I'm really tired of you working these shifts. Why the hell can't you get a job during the day?"_

"… _Because I have classes," her response quiet; he uncrossed the folded arms in front of his chest._

"_Well they're taking a backseat…cause you're quitting. You're gonna get a day job."_

_She bit her lip, feeling a sink in her stomach. "I can't do that…"_

"_Yeah? Well 'I can't' stay up all night watching the kid, either. Not to mention worrying about some prick grabbing your ass at that strip club."_

"_It's just a bar – "she began, but stopped abruptly as he approached her, a finger pointed to her face._

"_Don't act like I don't know what fuckin' goes on there, Scar."_

_She couldn't argue with him; all she did was dip her eyes from him before turning away. The redhead felt a stinging sensation against her shoulder blade as she was roughly turned back to face him._

"_Jesus, Todd – "_

"_Do you think I'm kidding? Screw that job and the classes, alright?"_

_Vibrant green eyes lit up as the grip on her shoulder became more severe, but she was used to the way he was. No matter what she had to remain calm if she wanted things to be easy. Even if it were over something like this - something she cared about very much._

"_I could get someone else to watch Julie at night. I could still go to classes; my mother can watch her during the day and – "_

"_No."_

"… _Why?" Scarlett had faltered slightly, her voice a still-whisper in an attempt to stay quiet. Julie was sleeping, after all. _

_The grip slacked on her arm just enough for him to fling her into the wall, causing her back to arch in discomfort against the rough plaster. The breath left her upon contact. A resounding thud was loud enough to spark a cry from the child in the adjoining room._

"_Because I fucking said so, that's why! Come on, Scar. Don't you think I've got enough to stress over without wondering what the hell my wife is doing?"_

_She sucked in a breath – it was reminiscent of a painful hiss, "Todd, you promised. You said – "_

"_I know what I said! Don't try and tell me what I said!"_

_Scarlett frowned, hearing another cry from her daughter before moving her face away from the man that lingered in front of her. He huffed and rolled his eyes, turning away from her before stalking back towards the kitchen table. Eyes of upset cautiously followed his movements. She opened her mouth in protest when she watched him pick up a book from the neatly stacked pile._

"_Don't…"_

_He tore the spine clear off of the first one. All of its contained pages floated unceremoniously to the ground in a cloud of white. She was before him in a second, moving her hands in the way of the rest of the books. _

"_Stop it, please – Todd, stop it!"_

_She was flung to the paper-covered floor with ease. He did the same to the several other texts that lie there; even a research paper she'd managed to type up in the library was torn in two. Scarlett tried to scramble back up to his height only once when his hands went for that piece in particular – a kick delivered to the side kept her down. A groan was released and she curled on her side, biting harshly down upon her tongue in an attempt to remain quiet._

"_Drop the fucking classes."_

_The woman on the floor swallowed. She didn't weep, unlike the girl in the room opposite them. She was silent as her husband stepped over her form, decorated with shreds of paper._

"_Go shut Julianne up. She never shuts up…"_

_The slam of her bedroom door shook her. Sitting up, she took in the disarray around her before propping herself up from the floor. The screams grew louder when she went to the cradle, picking up the child in order to coo soothing nonsense into her ear. An hour passed before the infant fell back to sleep._

_Scarlett slept on the couch, not bothering with a shower. It neared six in the morning before she was woken up by a phone call._

"_You left your wallet here last night."_

_Her manager's voice was free of tire; he was used to the third shift. She smiled to herself slightly at his friendly tone. He'd never once caused her any problem and seemed to concern himself over her. Scarlett was appreciative. He was one of few. _

"_I'm sorry… I was in a hurry to get back last night. Thanks for grabbing it for me."_

_He ushered a 'your welcome' through the phone line._

"_Need me to drop it off?"_

_She pressed her lips together, sending a quick look to the doorway of her undisturbed bedroom. The purse playing against her lips remained as she looked away._

"_It's ok. I'll just pick it up when I come in tonight. Thanks for letting me know."_

"_You're welcome, hun. Try and stay out of trouble, huh?"_

_The silence that ended the phone call unnerved her. She spent the next half-hour picking up loose papers and shreds of textbooks off of linoleum._

* * *

The suavity of Hannibal Lecter's voice brought her back to her senses. The redhead took in the exterior of his grand home once more after realizing they'd pulled into the drive.

"Would you oppose my offer of coming in for a cup of tea, Scarlett?"

She bit her lip, turning to the side as she opened the car door, "I think so."

Her feet met cement a moment later. The noise of two sets of doors shutting in unison altered her that the psychiatrist was making his way round to her.

"You are keeping secrets, my dear."

The shorter of the two looked up into his dark gaze – a flicker of maroon notable in them. Surely she was agitating him. It didn't bother her. She huffed.

"I'm sure your _brilliant mind_ can unravel them."

He narrowed his eyes slightly – not in an intimidating fashion. Not that it intimidated her – the only trembles that ran through her body were of anguish.

"I have studied genetics, Ms. Sage. The likelihood of your relation to that girl – "

"Why are telling me this if I am already to know it, Doctor Lecter?"

He paused, pocketing his hands in slack pockets, "A matter of preference in my attempt to coax the truth from you. I admit I would much prefer your explanation now as opposed to later."

Crimson painted lips parted slightly, "It's_ none_ of your damn business."

Hannibal's brow rose as she turned sharply, fumbling with her purse in search of car keys. His pace was slow but quick to keep up with hers considering their difference in height and length of stride.

"I want to help you."

She looked up from her purse after finally catching her ring of keys, her eyes etched with doubt.

"Why do always say the same things? And in the _exact _same way, too?"

"Do you not trust me?"

She diverted her eyes. She wasn't keen on admitting that she did trust the man – he made her uncomfortable and she was sure he did it on purpose.

Of course, he might have very well saved her life the other night. That was commendable in its own way, wasn't it? Had she even thanked him for that? She paused, faltered, and set her gaze back to match his.

"You don't have any children, Doctor Lecter."

It was half a statement, half an inquisition. She'd only assumed as much. He pursed his lips.

"No."

"Then you've never had the responsibly of having to care for a child; having to protect them."

"I could understand what – "

"You_ can't_ understand," she cut him off, sharply. "You could never understand what it's like to lose something you love – not in the way I have. Not when you're responsible."

Hannibal Lecter swallowed, and thought of Mischa.

He thought of severing each individual throat of those pathetic men; those pitiable souls who'd stolen from him everything that he was responsible for and everything he'd ever loved.

He reflected upon adding Scarlett Sage to his dismal list simply for bringing those thoughts back to his head. But the way she was looking at him kept his expression passive and his mind intrigued – it was far from her intention to harm him. She simply spoke the truth.

Hannibal wondered on what side of the spectrum the young woman fell upon. He doubted her a psychopath. He assumed her disturbed. She was perfect mixture of anger and fear – perfectly unbalanced.

"Come in for tea."

It was firm – akin to a demand. He extended his hand to her.

"I'm leaving," she reiterated in a just as firm manner as she turned to open her door, "I have a funeral to prepare for."

The psychiatrist allowed her to leave after she bid a strained farewell.

He was free for the rest of the day and spent the majority of it in his office, breathing steadily as he read through medicinal journals in silence. Occasionally he would misread a line – mistaking_ her_ name among the jumble of letters. He would place the leather bound reading flat upon his desk and stare calmly across the luxuriously decorated room, eyes falling on artwork that lined the walls.

He doesn't let any emotion reach the surface of his expression. Internally, a fire burns.

Come midnight he is a predator.

She is alone. The blonde he hunts is unaware of his presence – she trips on the sidewalk. Too much to drink and her level of intoxication high.

He can't help but contemplate the taste of her, undoubtedly merged with something strong, perhaps vodka. Though he prefers wine, he thinks positively. The blood is pre-seasoned.

* * *

It is raining once again but it welcomed with the heat. An ivory-skinned woman covers her face from the downpour and the onlookers with her black fedora; a veil of lace covers her eyes as the girl is lowered into the grave.

She is surprised so many of Julie's friends and schoolmates had shown. It was good to have the crowd; it was not as if any other family members were around.

Scarlett's eyes are blurry.

She does not think the weather dreary. Rain really is the best weather for a funeral.

It feels natural. Nature's way of masking sorrow.

* * *

"_I'm an idiot."_

"_What have you done?"_

"_I hate him more than anything."_

_The older woman is silent. Contemplative. She flicks a cigarette into a teacup. She asks her question over once more. "What have you done?"_

_A frail body shakes and the graying woman sets a hand on her shoulder – a calming, frail hand. Scarlett shakes her head and tries not to cry. Her mother despises the act. _

"_He took Julie… I don't know where they – where they are, where they went..."_

_A moment of hesitation lingers between them before an answer comes her way._

"_It's just another fight, sweetheart. He will be back tomorrow – men do not raise children alone."_

"_But he's so angry with me."_

_A puff of vapor comes out of her mouth as she smokes, "Why?"_

_The frail redhead shifts in her chair and the other woman's hand leaves her agitated shoulder – it has bruised._

"_He made me quit my classes. He doesn't like my job…he, he thinks I'm stepping out on him, or something."_

"_Are you?"_

"_I'm not."_

_Scarlett worries at the way her mother stares at her. She disagrees with her mother quite often, but always bent to her will. The older woman spoke after a long while._

_"Jealousy is an affliction all men have, dear. And that is all he is – jealous. Envious of your education and resentful of the thought of another man, rightfully so."_

"_I'm just worried. It's not fair."_

"_Honestly, dear," the older woman hums, sending her attention of to the kitchen sink in order to clear the ashes from the cup, "I've never told you life is fair. It's far from fair."_

_She nods when her mother turns back to her. Scarlett is sent off with the advice of cooking dinner; apparently her husband will be home by the end of the night. _

_When her mother is wrong and the meat grows cold she tosses the plates out of the window and they shatter as they meet the outside pavement._

* * *

The blonde was not a smoker; her lungs were divine.

Hannibal Lecter never dined in silence.

_"The Goldberg Variations"_ – an arrangement by Johann Sebastian Bach accompanied the dim lighting of the room. The environment was set; he savored the tastes, smells, sights, and sounds of all that surrounded him. Such was a time when his senses were fully enticed.

Heavily lidded eyes closed as the sound of an unexpected knock broke into the middle of his dinner. He inhaled, stood and soon made his way to the parlor. The sight of the redheaded woman outside his door was not expected, even by him.

"The funeral was today."

He watched her lips move as the words were slowly released. He nodded in understanding and stood back to allow her entrance; she dipped her head at him as she went by and watched as her eyes widened in embarrassment. She could hear the light tendrils of soft music spilling throughout the house – no doubt did her sense of smell falter as she took in the heavenly broil of human lung doused with vinaigrette.

"Oh – I… " she stopped for a moment, taking in his expression, "I didn't mean to interrupt…"

"Nonsense, Scarlett. I have only just sat down; join me."

She does so, complementing his cooking as a fork parts her teeth. He would love to tell her how she herself served as inspiration.


	10. Chapter 10

Despite the intimacy of the meal, there is little to no talking.

The pale woman, still adorned in her black attire, finds that he appears more concerned over her mannerisms – not once does she look up from her plate to find his gaze set anywhere far from her own line of sight. Scarlett attempts to be inconspicuous as she takes the tablet and capsule in unison, washing it down with the contents of the glass before her. Hannibal's leer is hardly evident as he continues to eat, allowing her to believe she's effectively cloaked the action.

For some reason she felt inclined to extend him a favor. He had, of course, so graciously accepted her into his home and filled her empty stomach to its content just as any congenial host would surely do.

She bit her lip when he pushed himself out of his chair and on cue Scarlett volunteered to assist him in cleaning. Instead the man had insisted that she do nothing of the sort and swept away the dishes that cluttered the table with ease. He disappeared behind a swinging door; he made the trip three times over in succession and the woman looked at the hands in her lap while waiting in patience.

The polished redwood she sits before has a cherry-glow, reflecting the light from dim candles. In no time at all, the table is clear and all traces of their shared meal are gone, stowed away into a kitchen.

"Come," he beckons her from her seat and she stands, "We shall speak in the den."

She follows a mere footstep behind him; even for a house as grand as his own she believes the hallways are too narrow for her to walk comfortably by his side. He doesn't speak a word of it as they enter the new room. It is just as expansive as all of the other rooms, but this one rages with the warmth of a fireplace. There is a sofa along the wall that the psychiatrist strides over to. She doesn't realize she's remained fixed in the doorway until his accent catches her once again.

"Sit with me, Scarlett."

As the words leave his lips he pats the empty place by his side. She nods, walking over to him before settling down, guardedly, and her legs cross over one another at her set of thin ankles.

Hannibal Lecter notes that her tension is present but has unquestionably subsided. She is not the same as she was the day before. Scarlett's form was now bathed in light – alabaster skin turned a health gold. The fire only illuminated the crimson hue of her hair; orange tinged the whites of her eyes.

His own back was to the fire; he imagined to the woman before him his features were heavily shadowed – the glow of the fire serving only to outline a cold form devoid of light and warmth.

He appreciated the imagery of their contrast.

"How do you feel?"

"How do you think I feel?"

She hadn't snapped at him; her words were relatively calm aside from the slightest trace of a shake deep within them. He paused, having shifted his form only slightly in order to face her – to gauge her reactions and read the solemn expressions etched across her features.

"Surely, you feel relieved. Whether it be through burying a daughter, or a secret."

Her look narrowed slightly and eyes rose to the challenge of staring down his own. Suitably, in an attempt to smooth over his words, he added, "I do not intend to press you on the matter. I simply assumed given your arrival in my home…"

A tongue traced painted lips as he spoke and her voice cut him off, "No. It's alright."

She looked away from him, showing off only her profile, "I didn't have anywhere else to go, you know. I'm sorry."

"Don't ever apologize for coming to me."

She swallowed, diverting her eyes and still looking straight ahead, away from him, "It still wasn't appropriate for me to come here. If _all_ of your patients did this sort of thing…"

"You may consider yourself the exception, Scarlett."

Sighing, her expression turned to meet his. "I'm a horrible mother."

He tilted his head slightly, lips pursed, "I doubt that."

"But you don't know."

Hannibal pursued the topic with practiced patience, "Enlighten me."

* * *

_Scarlett sat alone for nine days; a million worries kept running through her mind. Every afternoon she had gone to visit her mother, a woman who seemed unperturbed by the entire incident. _

_When the redhead finally broke down in tears on the seventh afternoon, her mother appraised the weakness as justification for her husband leaving._

"_Such a sad display, Scarlett. Are you like this when he is around? It's no wonder he hasn't returned, dear."_

_That line had continued to run through her wearied mind over and over again; an unavoidable, endless loop. _

_She was scrubbing the baseboards in their bedroom when she heard the scrape of a screen door opening. The redhead rushed into the living room, curled crimson locks bounced off of her shoulders._

"_What the hell, Todd!"_

_He snapped the door shut behind him; his eyes rolled, "Just what I love to hear when I walk through the door – your bitching."_

_She crossed her arms, frowning, "Where have you been?" _

_He shrugged his shoulders at her; she felt her voice tighten._

"_Where's Julie?"_

_The silence that rested between them forced her to swallow as a sudden drying knot rested in her throat, "Where the hell is Julie, Todd!"_

_It came out as a rasp. He pushed past her, knocking her to the side as he took to walking into the kitchen. He opened up the refrigerator, exposing his bent back to her. She was shaking. He scoffed to himself._

"_What, she's not here?"_

"_No!"_

_That came out as a screech. Todd turned to her, taking in her shuddering displays of fury. He'd never truly seen her this upset before._

"_Calm the fuck down. I got someone to watch her – I figured they might've dropped off __Julie by now, was all."_

_But Scarlett didn't calm down. She was even pushed to the point of smacking him right across the face later that evening when she went to gather her coat and shoes in a panic - she had to try and find out where her daughter was. He'd twisted her arm behind her back and she was pressed against the wall an instant later. _

"_What's wrong with you, huh? You think I'd let something happen to the kid?"_

"_I want to see her."_

"_You know, she's my daughter, too, Scar."_

"_Please! You can't even watch her for a week without pawning her off on someone – who knows who the hell you left her with!"_

_She felt a sickening pop – her already raw throat could hardly manage the scream she'd needed to release. The sound she could utter, however, was muffled by the arm of the taller, brown haired man._

"_I'm not going to listen to this anymore, OK? Do you hear me? Just shut-up and enjoy the fucking vacation away from the screaming. I'm doing you a favor."_

_Scarlett didn't talk to him when he popped her arm back into place – only a sharp scream was emitted from her. He wrapped the appendage up half-heartedly. _

_She threatened to file a police report three days later. He'd grabbed her so roughly that her arm fell out of place for a second time; her shriek shredded his eardrums. _

_He didn't allow her to leave. He promised she'd never see Julie again if she went to the police._

_A week went by, and he told her she was overreacting._

_She'd tried to call her mother; she'd sided with Todd._

_Another week went by. Her eyes had gone cloudy and red._

_She woke up with the incessant compulsion to run a blade across the wooden table top. He'd called her crazy when he took in the marred dinner table, and she'd stared at him with a lethal glint in her eye._

_Scarlett had always been small, frail, and slender. An easy target._

_Her husband was surprised; for the first time in his life he had felt fear. _

_The innocent doe had been the one to evoke it._

* * *

Scarlett Sage hardly flinched when she felt the psychiatrist take her arm in his gentle, yet surprisingly rough grasp; he observed the scar that embellished her ivory flesh with an expert eye. Although difficult to see in the dimly lit room, he could observe the sullen, thin line that marked her.

"You obviously know she was adopted. It's just a secret that my… _biological _daughter... I just… never found her."

Strong hands had let go of her arm, having fully appraised it. Satisfied.

"Your biological daughter, Julie – she didn't know she was adopted?"

The redhead dipped her head, "I hid it from her. I didn't get a chance to tell her. I was planning to."

"But _only _after you'd fully mothered her, of course; after some sort of psychological, inner-reflection over what you would define to be an achievement. After the initial failure of losing your infant."

She nodded, after a moment – surprised by his quick analysis. Hannibal placed his hand on her arm once more; the smallest jolt coursed through her. But she was beginning to appreciate the warmth.

"And your husband?"

The heat of the man's hand fell upon her own and she ushered a weak response from a pair of parted lips, "Clearly we are no longer together."

On that note, Hannibal wanted to hiss his accusation at her. He could sense the resistance of her answer. Despite her openness, the trace of a lie was obvious to him. But on the same note, she appealed to him.

He licked his lips in the most subtle of ways as she stared past his face and towards the flames of the raging fire; her expression was vacant.

The colors on her were sublime; she appeared to burn and glow all at once. Hannibal was a man of control and containment, but the urge to taste the fire-lit flesh before him still lingered beneath his restraint.

He was curious how such a thing would affect her; what sort of response she would give to him even from the most simple of sensations.

Certainly she'd grow with unease and it would complicate her emotions and inner turmoil even further. The good doctor wondered internally; _was that not the sort of thing he wished to invoke in her?_

"Scarlett," his tone low.

Catching her attention, green eyes left the fire.

"Yes?"

"You haven't pulled away from me."

_You won't run from your manipulator – until it is too late. _

She pressed her lips together, "No…" allowing herself to pause.

"I guess you are helping me, after all."

_That is far from my intention, deliciously distant, afflicted Scarlett._

"That is my intention."

He smiled lightly at her, carrying his calm tone – the quiet one he adopted when speaking to his most agitated of patients. The warmth of his hand withdrew from hers and lingered up her arm; he stopped to trace her scar before moving up towards the base of her neck.

The man watched with curiosity as her eyes widened slightly – her shakes running timid; even if she were somehow still frightened by the touch, she found it soothing all the same.

"You're recovering well," he comments, softly.

She swallows; he can feel the movement of her muscles underneath his light grasp. The sensation is one of simple anatomy, but he thrives on such things – how the workings of her frail throat differ from his own and all of the other throats he's laid passionate, agitated hands upon.

"Doctor Lecter – "

"... Hmmm?"

Hesitance is written all over her features – fear lingers there – mostly because of all the things she had expected when coming to her psychiatrist's home tonight, this situation hadn't even seemed plausible to her.

She wonders if it's because of her condition.

Something must be wrong with her – to not pick up on such advances. To not enjoy them. To not_ revel_ among them.

Her bottom lip trembles; he traces the plump redness of it with his thumb. He seems precise and observant – exercising caution by evaluation before needlessly diving in after what he admires. She believes he will wait.

But by that time he has kissed her, silencing the thoughts that threatened to escape her lips.

Hannibal finds her delicious, even when her lips refrain from parting at first. He resists the urge to bite down, harshly – the subtle hint of lung and vinaigrette still lingers there. The combination is one of perfection and he cannot help but smirk against her.

She pulls away and he represses a growl – he is trained and calm as he watches her, head titled and dark gaze fixed.

"I-I'm," she forms the word, despite her shaking; "I'm your _patient_."

He remains still; the corners of his mouth are turned upwards and form the quirk of a smile.

"Is this not to your liking?"

She lets out a shaky breath, "I… I didn't mean it like that. I don't know. I just don't think it's…_suitable._"

He pauses, his smirk ever present as he continues.

"I'm not suggesting a relationship, dear Scarlett. Indeed, you simply may not be ready for one, judging from what you have told me."

She stares blankly at him, waiting for continuation. A warm, calloused hand is at her neck once more, brushing back a fiery mane of crimson tresses. The sensation incites shivers – they are foreign, long forgotten responses. Some are indefinitely eerie, haunting; but she must admit that they are not all so terrible.

"But do you not ever yearn for release?"

* * *

YOU ARE ALL AMAZING PEOPLE! (:


	11. Chapter 11

When posed with such a frank inquisition, there are a number of things that can falter. A numbing sensation might sweep over any of the five senses – possibly even the entirety of them all.

At his words, this seemed to be Scarlett's case.

It was as if all possible elements of response had decided to wane simultaneously. She knew the swirling in her mind had increased – it somehow managed to mask the suave accent of the man who lingered before her, his hand still resting against the base of her neck. She thought she could feel the shift of his fingers against her, perhaps in an attempt to shake her from her thoughts. She blinked. Blinked away the sensations induced by him.

"Wh – what?"

The breathless stumble on words seemed to amuse the man; his lips quirked up just a bit more and the smirk he held was reflected by his eyes as they poured over her expression. Hannibal chose his next words carefully, speaking them in a slow, precise manner.

"What would you think if we pursued your course of treatment in an alternative… and perhaps, unconventional manner?"

She could not hide it; despite the attempt. The creeping flush was furious – its livid red color swept entirely through her, painting her features explicitly.

"I… You can't be serious."

"I can assure you, dear Scarlett," he insisted succinctly, adding an inclination of his head towards her own, "I am."

Scarlett was irate at how easily she allowed herself to fluster while the man sitting opposite her remained serene. Pressing her lips firmly together, she held a frail hand up to his shoulder, creating a make-shift barrier as she swallowed.

"After what happened today – I... I can't."

_A hint of genuine surprised laced over the good doctor – the halt of a pursuit._

There was short pause, a flicker of his maroon-glinted eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly as he enunciated his response.

"Naturally."

Fingers grazed the line of her jaw before pulling away; the woman turned her head to the side, suddenly overcome with the settling awkwardness in the room.

"I apologize. I admit the suggestion wasn't particularly sensitive to your current state."

The redhead's gaze followed the suited man as he stood up from her the next instant, brushing down the lapels of his coat; removing their creases with steadied movement. His features were highlighted from her perspective as she remained perched upon the couch – jutting cheekbones were only emphasized by the flames of the fireplace. She could not help but stare, to which he ended up arching an eyebrow in response.

The red tinge of her complexion intensified. He smirked.

"You must remind me, Scarlett, as my own remembrance has lapsed – when is it that you and I are to meet again under the circumstance of an appointment?"

"I think tomorrow."

"Well then," he extended a hand to her which was timidly taken before the woman was helped up from the sofa, "That is not so long. We can continue our conversation at that time."

"Our conversation?" she repeated flatly - bluntly.

He didn't reply, his taut smirk simply remained in place. Scarlett bit the inside of her lower lip.

"Alright," she agreed with a nod, feeling her hand slip away from his grasp and fall to her side.

He cocked his head at her movement, placing a hand at the small of her back to prompt her forward, "It is late. I'll escort you to your car."

Playing the part of a gentleman came easily to Hannibal Lecter; suavity and charm were two things that did not elude him. As such, it never proved difficult to instigate the swooning effect he had on most women. Not to imply that he did it often; he actually preferred women who were harder to catch. It seemed almost too easy to entice the sort of girl who'd stop whatever she was doing when he passed by. There was no challenge in that - and in all honestly, attracting a woman who seemed bent on only his physical attraction bothered him.

Physical attraction was indeed an important factor to him, but the mind itself was what sparked true intrigue.

Despite hints of hesitance from the crimson woman before him, he doubted those feelings would linger; she was obviously flattered by his advancement, he noted to himself – her lack of composure made that quite clear.

Given the situation, he admitted he'd acted a bit on impulse. He also admitted that he would likely do so again.

It was the manipulation of something timid – he found it a rewarding exercise.

"I appreciate what you told me today, about your daughter. It was very trusting of you. I wish for you to continue to confide in me."

They were outside of her car by now, the chill night nipped at her. She invited the coolness though; it settled her nerves and she felt she could breathe easier in open air.

"I will," she managed, steadily.

Another short pause passed between them; both obviously evaluating the sincerity of her response.

"Doctor Lecter?"

"Yes?"

The back of her teeth took to gritting against each other; she would have to force out the inquisition – the factor of uncertainty that lingered in her mind.

"I have to ask. And believe me I'm not trying to put you on the spot."

_Ironic. He'd certainly put her on the spot, he mused sarcastically to himself._

Heels shifted against the pavement, parallel with forced eye contact.

"Are you attracted to me?"

The smile that played on his lips was tugged up a bit further, "I do recall pointing out your intrigue. More than once, if I'm correct."

"So. I'm taking that as a yes."

He paused for only a moment, "Believe me, Scarlett. Even cloaked in darkness, you appear remarkable."

Scarlett had surprised herself; more than his answer has surprised her, in fact.

Leaning up, she succeeding in planting a chaste, swift kiss on his cheek.

She averted her eyes and turned towards the car almost immediately afterwards, but not so fast that the hint of a returning, fervent blush went unperceived by the good doctor.

_Remarkable girl._

* * *

_Psychopathic Deception:_

_1. Glibness and charm_

_2. Analogies and metaphors _

_3. Evasion_

_4. Fabrication _

_5. Playing upon emotions_

* * *

"Childish," an ivory hand held up a pouted chin, "He thinks you acted childish."

She was tutting angrily to no one in particular other than herself. It took awhile for her to fall asleep the night before; the five hours of rest she did manage to claim were far from efficient as she went about grading piles of tests – paperwork spilled from the corner of her desk, expectedly after having allowed the mess to pile up for a few day's time.

She'd been jittery, thanks to the lack of sleep. When the cup of coffee she sought out in order to wake spilled over, she cursed audibly.

"For _God's_ sake."

"Do you need help?"

Catching a breath in her throat, she looked up; a tall, middle-aged man sporting a dark five o'clock shadow had stepped into the office. His name was Mark, and the redhead worked for him.

"Oh," she opened one of the desk's drawers, rifling through the contents before retrieving a handful of napkins with a grimace still plastered on her face, "I've got it. Some of these papers are just watermarked now, I guess."

He'd grinned slightly at her glumness, approaching casually as she went about blotting the mess. The woman was wearing a pair of black, squared reading glasses; she looked up over the frames as he neared.

"You alright, Professor?"

"I'm fine."

The man pocketed his hands, coming to standstill, "Not anxious, or anything?"

She gave him a puzzled look; his glance was an obvious gesture towards the spilled mess. Huffing, she turned her attention back down towards the wet table.

"Accidents happen."

"They do."

The tension tore into her.

"Please," the voice began, "Take a voluntary leave of absence."

A pink tongue licked lips that rolled in; fingers dropped the matted napkins as she stood up straight, her jaw set firm.

"Why would I do that?"

"Your daughter's funeral. The article in the paper –"

"I've been dealing with this just _fine_ for months. It hasn't interfered with my work."

"I'm not saying it has. I'm thinking about your personal life."

She turned her head, closing her eyes in disbelief. "I appreciate your concern, but I need a legitimate reason."

The man tried to ease into his explanation, "… I received a _personal_ call."

"What? A complaint?"

Scarlett practically spat the words in distaste; her boss spoke up over her.

"You're not being _fired_, Doctor Sage."

"Right… Just on leave…" she spoke, bitterly, "For how long?"

"I'm prepared to have a visiting professor take over your courses for the rest of the semester."

Jade orbs widened, "The_ rest_ of the semester? That's over three months!"

"You can come back next term."

"That's too long," she hissed frankly, shaking her head, "What am I supposed to do?"

The dark haired man shrugged his shoulders, "Whatever you want to do – you'll be paid while you're out."

She sat down, leaning back in her chair; analyzing her fingernails before taking to drum them against the wooden desk as she leaned forward. "So, who complained?"

Hesitance made itself known; she eyed him as he shifted, crossing his arms, "It wasn't a complaint. It was a recommendation."

The taps against the wood grew louder with new-found, added pressure. "_Whose_ recommendation?"

"Hannibal Lecter's."

* * *

Running at night is not good for the lungs. The chill bite of frost nips at the organ with each constriction and release. The throat, too, feels the effects of cold; often a throat can turn raw and the rasps released from it serve only to strain the corded muscles further.

Wild and frantic, a heartbeat rushes along with the swift movements of a running stride against grassy terrain. His mind is foggy from injury - pain permanently instilled in it from the growing source of throbbing that tears at his side.

It would be a waste of time, to stop and examine the wound, or even to just glance down. Preservation of life surpasses the need to know whether a bullet or arrow has grazed the flesh above his hip. All that matters is the seeping, draining feeling of blood flow and loss; droplets of it are without doubt leaving behind a spackled, crimson trail - one easy enough to follow.

Rugged breaths and cracking twigs beneath sneakers are the two noises the young man hears outside of the swill of pain and adrenaline surging through his body.

But then, he can hear the distortion of torn flesh before the pain escalates to reciprocators.

The second hit lands; the sharp infliction buries itself within a shoulder blade. His body falls with a gasp and the sting of air against open wounds feels far worse than that of the tripping collision against the earth.

Face down, planted in dirt – only with the assistance of a hunter does the weak appendage rise. The fallen prey cannot feel the painful twist of a hand's grasp at the back of his neck. There are other, more prominent sources of pain. Cold ground meets an agitated back; the catch is flipped with ease.

Hannibal is a sadist, but he does not feel sadistic.

Indeed, the first cut is precise. His attention is focused and the actions of the sharpened knife are executed with patience, accuracy, and a calm demeanor - despite the sputtering movements of the body pinned beneath his own.

He would not call his actions sadistic. He is meticulous. He executes with care.

In his mind, these are extensions of kindness.

* * *

Will Graham was ten minutes early for his appointment with the unconventional psychiatrist; while indeed their relationship was lax, Will was well aware of how particular the sharp-featured man could be when it came to his work.

Even if he'd arrived a mere minute early, that door would not open until the clock struck the exact time of his appointment.

Cross a leg over his knee, he'd situated himself in one of the chairs in the waiting room; rolling up his sleeves and pushing the glasses that rested upon his face back up into position against the bridge of his nose. These little actions seemed to help pass the time and he needed to carry them out. He was one to fidget in silent circumstances because they allowed room and time for contemplation and thought.

The young agent didn't like that time; he did not want to have to linger on such grotesque things.

Heavy breathing and shuffling, quick-paced clicks caught him by surprise and saved him from the silence. The anger etched upon the oncoming woman's features worried him, but he noticed her expression weaken just a bit as they made eye contact.

"Scarlett? Are you, uh – are you okay?"

Will stood up; she stopped before him, giving him a confused look.

"No, not really… Will, right?"

The agent nodded while she feigned a half-smile. It looked awkward paired with the creases of anger still marring her forehead.

"I'm sorry. I'm not the greatest with faces and names," she lied, choosing to avoid the subject of her spill at Hannibal's home.

"What's wrong?"

Narrowing green eyes flew over to the door and back to the brown-haired man before her all within a second's time.

He frowned, "Doctor Lecter?"

Ruby lips pressed against one another, matting the color, "That would be the short-handed explanation."

"What'd he do?"

She stopped to think, watching Will blink rapidly a few times over at the sudden thought of his own doctor having instilled anger in another patient. She pursed her lips, feeling a pang of guilt.

"It's… nothing, really," she brushed off, adding only when she caught the quirk of his brow, "I think doctor-patient confidentiality goes both ways, you know."

Will shrugged lightly, "I mean - you looked like you were going to barge in there and – "

"It's fine," she cut in, and he dropped his gaze, "Do you have an appointment, then?"

"Yeah, but if you need to speak with him..." he suggested, prompting himself to hold her gaze. She shook her head before he could finish, looking dismissive.

"I'll come back later. Don't tell him I was here."

"It appears to be too late for that, Scarlett."

Both individuals in the sitting room turned to face the well put-together and tailored presence of Doctor Lecter; he lingered in the doorway with one hand splayed against the ajar hardwood.

His selected, preferred patients both felt affected by the absolute gaze.

"Would you both like to come in?"

The pair outside of the door glanced at one another; simultaneously the two spoke.

"No."

Hannibal tilted his head, Scarlett allowed her gaze to harden against his own, and Will chuckled nervously, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.

"She'll take my time. I'll just, uh – see you tomorrow. Jack wants you to come in, anyway."

"Will – "

"It's okay," he insisted, glancing up at the ceiling before turning towards the redhead. He forces a light grin, "Dogs are probably hungry."

* * *

The woman wasn't set on sitting; her posture was straight and her jaw was set.

"You're lucky."

His brow arched as he walked towards the desk, taking to leaning against it as she spoke in her harder, obviously afflicted tone.

"Why do you say that?"

"If Will hadn't been standing at the door when I came up here, I'd be screaming at you right now."

His fingers slid lightly across the surface of wood and he looked at her with a far from dignified smirk, "Perhaps I'd have welcomed it."

"You'd have welcomed me screaming at you for getting me fired?" she scoffed, icily.

"From a behavioral standpoint," the man clarified, pursing his expression, "Confrontation would unquestionably comprise a sort of personal breakthrough, or advancement, on your part."

She sent her eyes to the side in a half-roll; he added, "And you were not _fired_, my dear."

"Might as well have been," Scarlett pointed out, crossing frail arms over her chest. "You're going to have to call and fix this. I'm not going three months without something to do."

"I think it would be best for you to take leave. It will bide you time to follow through on lost interests – rekindle severed ties with family and friends…"

"_No."_

He stopped, "Why dismiss it so quickly?"

"Because you have no right to assume what I do with the personal life."

He inhaled, lightly, tearing his searing gaze off of her form for a moment, "We have been making such progress, Scarlett."

She threw him a sarcastic glare – he caught it.

"You kissed me. That doesn't qualify as progress."

The corners of his mouth quirked upwards in a collective grin, "If I recall correctly, it was_ you _who decided to endow me with such a sentiment upon your departure."

Scarlett licked her chapped lips, glowering at his smug expression. "Well. I won't make that mistake again."

A light chuckle was released between them and an elongated arm gestured to one of the seats in the middle of his office.

"Take a seat, please. We'll converse like adults."

She did so, keeping her arms firmly locked over her torso as he settles himself across form her with a raised brow.

"I would like to hear more about your husband."

"Ex-husband," she interjects, plainly and factually. He nods. She sighs, passively.

"What about him?"

Hannibal locks long fingers together, steepling them under his chin in thought. "What was the breaking point? What caused you to leave him for good? Was it this event – him losing your daughter?"

She shifted, "It wasn't like that."

His posture remained still, "There is no room for a lie here. There was a trigger, Scarlett – what was it?"

Her shoulders tensed before they fell into a shrug.

"You won't tell me?"

A firm shake of her head sent crimson curls bouncing, "After what you did?"

His façade remained relatively unaffected, but his eyes narrowed at her accusation-laced tone. Lips remained held in a pursed-pout until he spoke up, "I would prefer to not call your supervisor. I truly think a break would do you good."

"… Then I'd prefer not to answer your questions," she reflected calmly.

He stared at her intently – as if to burn her. For a moment she thought he actually would, and she worried for a split second over how the man would receive her words.

There was a clearing of a throat that caught her ear, "Fair enough, Miss Sage. Please tell me – is there anything else I could do that would get you to contribute to this session, or should we simply stare aimlessly at one another for the next half an hour?"

Several thoughts splayed across her mind; she was irked and agitated at how badly he'd affected her personal life, but at the same time she felt the need to savor a presented opportunity – especially when it dealt with someone she'd felt a flicker of unjustified attraction towards.

"Tell me about you."

* * *

You wanna know why this chapter is inaccurate... it's because if Mad's Mikkelsen kisses you - under no circumstances whatsoever do you EVER even contemplate the thought of rejecting him. I mean, damn; Scarlett is obviously cray.


	12. Chapter 12

"_He didn't try to find his ideal mate; he created one in her - a Victor Frankenstein building his monster, adamant in his pursuit to create distorted perfection."_

* * *

"Not keen on deflection, Doctor Lecter?"

Her voice is a bit insistent.

She only says these words to prompt him when the silence following her first inquisition goes on too long, especially so when it is paired with the passive demeanor of the collected doctor.

Only a moment's hesitation lingers between them before thin lips curl upwards at the accusation; he is placid on the surface, the inner mechanisms of his mind remain as serene and composed as the façade he displays.

"It is admirable when executed properly," the accented tone clarifies, and he takes to crossing a leg over the other.

Scarlett's green orbs absentmindedly follow the action.

From across the room, she dictates the tartan designs that pattern against the color of the richly dark suit. There are perfectly accented creases etched into the trousers and she admires his eye for detail and patience. Having pressed an iron to countless blazers and suits by her own hand, she recalls cursing at inanimate attire on more than one occasion.

"What is it that you are curious to know?"

Thin shoulders take to shrugging, but the cherry-lipped woman holds her own. Hands are folded in a graceful manner upon her knee and a smirk shines in her eyes.

She is half-way content because for once, she will be the one prodding.

"What would you share?"

Time suspends as he silently contemplates his response – he is able to fix his passive, faint smirk across his features as expertly as always; the expression doesn't reveal a single thought or tangible emotion.

She sinks back into the chair; the broad sides of it shield most of her form; a repetitive noise meets her ears before she realizes she is tapping the tip of her heel in impatience. Abruptly, she stops the action.

"I wonder, Scarlett…" his words are spoken in a low tone, pristinely selected, "Have you ever managed to come across the Latin phrasing of _Quid Pro Quo _during your studies?"

She presses her lips together and Hannibal Lecter catches the hint of uncertainty marring the tinge of her cheeks.

"It rings a bell."

"… By definition, it refers to an exchange of goods or services, where one transfer is contingent upon the other."

"Mhmm," she nods, and he tilts his head.

"Perhaps we can exercise it here?"

She arches a fine brow, inwardly distinguishing the benefits from the risks of his suggestion, "You answer my question and I answer yours?"

"Essentially," he nods, "It is an effective concept of barter. It also helps for the two individuals to establish further trust – something we are to aim for, wouldn't you agree?"

There is something insistent edged into the deep Lithuanian vibrato that makes her feel inclined to agree; nevertheless, she cannot shield the waver of disappointment held within her.

It was as if he'd swiped a potent card from her perfect hand; though still left with options, her power remains diminished.

"Honesty is valued."

Hannibal points this out, and she nods wordlessly once again. "I intend to answer truthfully – I am sure you'll reciprocate the gesture."

"That's fine," she agrees, eyeing the space on the wall behind him, "So…"

"- and so we begin," he insists, pursing his lips as he adds, "I believe a lady would go first, yes?"

Scarlett finds herself dipping her head, smirking at his punctual instruction, "Alright, then. Tell me why you decided to become a psychiatrist."

He clicks his tongue at her, "Surgery is a complicated business. Mistakes are made – eventually, I killed someone."

* * *

_There was something satisfying about setting bones, organ restoration and the mending of wounded tissue; he assumed it had everything to do with resistance. _

_In all honesty, Hannibal Lecter learned to control the inner confliction of self restraint in the emergency room far better than he could have done anywhere else._

_There's an underlying scent there that he enjoys. It has an almost calming attribute to it._

_His collogues seem to avoid it – they mask it with antiseptic and wash it away until everything is sterile once again. When that sterility is lost and another nameless body clings to a metallic table once more, he hides all internal satisfaction from whoever ends up assisting him. _

_When life is lost, it is unintentional. _

_Hannibal truthfully does just as any other doctor would do. He saves lives. _

_The anatomy of the human body is malleable, and it is with great care that the flaws presented against torn flesh are fixed and stitched in the compulsory, meticulous manner that he carries. He prides himself on it. It's another form of art to him. He is good at it, too. _

_Sometimes, there isn't much that can be done. Forearms coated with latex still shine with blood, but no breath of life is restored as a result of the trial. _

_When a teenager dies from the injuries sustained from a car wreck, it is the surgeon's responsibility to deliver the news._

_Several beads of sweat align his brow before a lean forearm wipes them all away. The man begins pulling off the surgical mask and blood-splattered gloves. Soap is embedded into his fingernails – he scrubs harshly, removing all traces of the deceased teen from his body. They cannot be there, given the fact that he'll be facing the family._

_Sincerity is exercised when he talks._

"_I am genuinely sorry."_

_Foreign tears blemish the scrubs that he wears and a face leans against his chest. He is able to exude sympathy, and so his own arm wraps around the convulsing shoulders of the crying individual – an aunt, or something – it doesn't matter. _

_He's used to this. He does it a number of times. He counts over ten instances, to be exact; a small faring number for that of a surgeon dedicated to the monstrosities that sweep through the ER. _

"_You're good with people, Hannibal."_

_Another surgeon, a younger raven-haired woman decides that it is necessary to point this out to him one afternoon, and she tacks on: _

"_I just can't bring myself to do it. I can't tell people that they'll never see the person they love again. It's horrible."_

_She is relatively new. Fresh out of her residency, he believes. Unused to such things._

_He can tell she's affected by something else. Perhaps someone in her family has died. He stiffens minutely when she presses him on. _

"_Doesn't it bother you?"_

_He doesn't have to feign a look of displeasure; it's already there. _

"_How could it not?"_

_Hannibal Lecter thinks about the inquisition posed by his troubled colleuge a week later while he stands admiring a full pantry. At the same time, he is conscious of the dwindling state of his freezer. _

_He thinks about it on a second instance when he is drawing blood from a crude businessman. Firm hands are delicate and precise when dealing with veins, but the businessman still fidgets, yells, and even shouts an obscenity at Hannibal afterwards - accusing him of being incompetent._

_Her words are with him a third time - when the crude man is on the chopping block and Hannibal anticipates with satisfaction that his freezer will remain full for quite some time. _

_No. It doesn't bother him. _

_When he has his colleagues over for dinner a month later and announces his plan to shift into psychiatry, there is a genuine, lingering sadness – but still, everyone praises his decision. _

_They praise his meal. They praise everything about him, because he has eluded them. _

_The black haired woman nods to him in particular, lifting her glass with nearly a half-dozen others._

"_You will be superb. You're good with people."_

_She reiterates this, her sincerity ever-present. He smiles, and sips the sweet liquor._

* * *

"One death too many. The teen was the last straw, so to speak – that is why I resigned."

"What was his name?"

He wonders why it matters. Hannibal doesn't believe he actually ever cared to find out, but he says "Michael" with affirmation, and it convinces the redhead.

"That's terrible."

"Yes."

She is quiet and turns her gaze to the floor. He assumes she feels bad for drawing such a memory out from him, and clears his throat.

"Fortunately, I believe I found my true calling in psychiatric medicine. I am very passionate about the field."

Scarlett looks up, exhaling, "That's good, then."

"Yes," he says again, shifting slightly in his seat before adding, "Do you mind - ?"

She sighs, waving a tired hand at him, "Go ahead."

A light smile and thoughtful look grace his sharp features. It comes off as puzzling to Scarlett, who believes to already fully anticipate his question.

Hannibal speaks clearly, narrowing his thoughtful look into one of genuine immersion as he makes his inquiry.

"How did you kill your husband?"

Her chest visibly constricts from shock, and she sputters.

"_What?"_

Of course, he expects her to be caught off guard, naturally – such a question usually carries with it bleak and personal details so intricately hidden within oneself that the mere mentioning of them provokes stunning reactions to their unexpected resurface.

"How," he reiterates, calmly, "did you kill your husband?"

The psychiatrist pauses, correcting himself as he watches her features both drain of color and darken simultaneously.

"Ex-husband."

She stands, abruptly, and turns away from him.

"I'm done."

"Scarlett – "

Ignoring the utterance of her name through his accented tone, she remains fixed on the door and walks with a hurried pace.

The sudden light grasp that encircles her wrist stops her mid stride; it is not rough, but it strong enough to hold her in place as she is turned around towards him. When her initial reaction compels her to try and jerk her hand away; he quirks a brow and keeps the frail arm entrapped.

"I assume it was in self-defense?"

She tries once more to tug her arm from his grasp; uncertain if it is out of fear or simply the desire to piss him off.

He'd certainly struck a chord.

The man before her appears entirely unfazed by her action. If anything, her actions subtly pique his interest, but nothing more. Hands are holding her wrist firmly at her side; and soon the adjoining one that she'd flung up at him as well is captured as well.

"How do you even..."

"The thought crossed my mind. I take your reaction as confirmation."

She senses his eyes darting all around her face, taking in each individual feature as if to further gain insight into the truth. His over-obvious analyzation made her want to hit him.

She grates her teeth, attempting to steady her breathing.

"Let go."

The demand was spoken with all the roughness she could conjure, and she is able to detangle a hand from his grasp but he snatches it back again, quickly. It comes as a surprise to her, the swift and agile reflex.

Her mouth falls open a bit and her words are quietly spoken.

"What do you want me to say?"

He tilts his head, frowning slightly; as if it is obvious.

"I want you to answer the question. I answered yours, did I not?"

There might be a hint of sarcasm in his voice; not overt, but it's there.

It's suitable. There was an obvious difference between her question and his own.

"Let go of me… and I'll answer the question."

Hannibal feels daggers being glared into him; he is fond of the sensation.

At her request, his fingers uncoil from around her wrists; the delicate appendages cross over once another in front of her chest.

Scarlett admits he hadn't strained her. The surface of her skin went relatively unaffected – nevertheless, a burning sensation lingered there.

Everything seemed to burn.

* * *

"_Mother."_

"_What is it, dear?"_

_Scarlett can hear the condescending pitch of the older woman's voice even through the static of the phone line. _

"_I'm leaving."_

"_Hmm?"_

"_I'm going to leave. I don't want you to worry."_

"_Scarlett," she can hear an exhale of smoke through the receiver, "Don't do anything rash."_

"_Julie's gone," the redhead speaks with a quiet break in her voice, "she isn't coming back."_

"_But you don't know that you're saying, sweetheart. Your husband promised she was fine."_

"_Then where is she?"_

_The older woman sighs lightly, "Safe, I'm sure."_

_The pale woman wants to believe it._

"… _I hope so."_

_When Scarlett hangs up the phone sometime later, her mother holds the impression that she has convinced her daughter to forget her mindset to bolt from her husband. _

_She cooks dinner; she wants to burn it, but refrains from doing so. _

_It is difficult to mask the look of hatred she feels towards her husband as he eats. As she chews, she notes that her bites are small and lazy in comparison to his._

_Scarlett doesn't realize she's been staring at him for minutes on end. The explicitly loud sound of a fist upon the tabletop coupled with the vibration of wood jars her from her zoned-out perspective and she jumps. _

"_What!"_

"_What are you staring at?"_

_A jade gaze falls down from him and rests on table, "Nothing."_

_The man rolls his eyes, and gruffs, "You bored? You want to do something?"_

"_No."_

"_Let's do something."_

_She shakes her head lightly, bringing a hand up to cradle her cheek – her elbow rests upon the tabletop. "Do what?"_

"_Hell, I don't care – so long as it gets that look off of your face."_

_She wants to scream at him, but before she can do so he breaks her train of thought._

"_We could go get a drink."_

"_I'm not – "_

"_Come on."_

_At the moment in time, she's not entirely sure what it is about his insistence that sparks her. She finds herself pocketing a butter knife into the coat hugging against the back of her chair just as easily as she would have a wallet._

_It's not terribly late. It's still dark, though – and the couple walk close to one another._

_She's surprised he's talking so much. It's out of character for him, and she wonders what else has changed about him. _

_But then again, everything else about him has changed. She shouldn't be surprised._

_The knife she thrusts into his abdomen puts an end to his talking – his newest change in character doesn't get the opportunity to blossom._

* * *

Scratching her slightly, the rough sensation of carpet grazes her knees before the realization that she is on the floor fully hits her. She is conscious of the man knelt down in front of her, but her hunched-over form shields her eyes from him. Her own hand runs over the lines of her face. With the back of it, she blots away streaming tears.

"That wasn't self-defense, Scarlett."

She felt the gentle nudging beneath her chin, a light, clinical touch. He is able to coax her to look up for his examination; she shuts her eyes in avoidance of his.

"That being said - you were provoked, and I understand the nature of your crime."

Lidded eyes opened. The scorching red color clouding her eyes was expected; she neither pulled away from nor leaned against his touch.

"Why did I tell you that?"

The pad of his thumb brushes away an astray tear as he cocks his head at her; there is no lingering smile, just a passive expression.

"I asked you to confide in me. True, from an outsider's perspective, perhaps it was not so wise of you."

She swallows, she shivers – eventually, she finds in her agitation a furious hand lunging at him and she swipes him harshly across the side of his face.

Upon contact, she realizes the power behind her assault not only makes a resoundingly loud noise amid the silence of the room – but it also breaks his skin. There are several red, perfectly parallel marks that show it. They are in her direct line of sight when his face is turned to the side; the slightest grimace traces his features.

She's shocked by the blood edged into the tips of her nails.

"I – I'm sorry. It's just, this isn't funny."

He stretches his neck out, turning to look at her full on once more, his heavily lidded eyes passive – if there is any anger there, it is well hidden.

"No need to apologize, Scarlett. I did not mean to alarm you."

"You won't say anything?"

He pauses and edges himself up from the floor, offering a hand to help her as well.

"Certainly not. You can trust me with your secret."

She feels a shudder of relief course through her, but she does not smile.

"Thank you."

She pauses, eyes flickering to the red-color clinging to his cheek – only a tinge of guilt passes through her, but it is still there.

"I'm really sorry for hitting you."

"I believe I told you that there was no need to apologize for it."

"I heard you," she ushers, quietly.

He nods at her, choosing to indulge whatever apology she wanted to extend.

"There's a bit of gauze in the top right corner of my desk – will you fetch it for me?"

He's surprised at how quickly she moves. It's as though only seconds pass before she's extending the white padded material out to him with hesitation; which he accepts with a courteous 'thank you' and she a 'you're welcome'.

"Do you feel comfortable leaving, Scarlett?"

It's secondary to him – he does not need a mirror, especially for such a small abrasion. He stares at her intently as he dots the blood off of his skin; he notes her expected swallow.

"No."

He finally offers her a smile, walking across the room to flick the gauze into the trash.

"We'll have tea."


	13. Chapter 13

Devour [dɪˈvaʊə]

_ 1. to consume greedily or avidly with the senses or intellect_

_ 2. to prey upon voraciously_

_ 3. to swallow or eat hungrily_

* * *

Shock, in its purest form, is the one look that can give you more insight into a person's true self than that of any other rivaling expression.

Contemplation of a thought and the carrying out of an action are two very different things.

Scarlett realized the truth of both sentiments the moment in which she'd pressed cool steel against the contrast of hot flesh. Her shoulders still burned from the experience; the harsh etchings of his dull, frantic fingernails were embedded into her skin as scars. He'd desperately clawed on to her. She remembered the way his body convulsed and how the shakes of her own body rivaled his own. While his grip eventually slacked from her shoulders, her thin, unpolished fingers remained laced over the base of the knife's end. Unable to let go – unable to rationalize.

Blood doused her knuckles.

His fallen form had brought her down with him; she'd knelt at his side. Stunned, horrified, _shocked_.

It was terrifyingly entrancing. Cerulean blues faded to gray devoid of life and light. She'd wretched the steel out of him in that last moment and dropped it to the ground as if it had burned her, allowing metal to clutter against evening-tinted cement.

She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes until she saw nothing but distorted darkness, blocking out the vision before her. She tried to move away, but it turned to a stumble that led to a fall, leaving her a trembling heap in the alley.

She felt broken – the state of her mind a whirlwind of emotion.

Scarlett also felt strangely empowered, and she detested herself for that.

A tear drop splattered against the gravel; her feet unsteady as she attempted to stand to appraise the extent of her crime.

A tear drop splattered into the contents of a freshly poured cup of tea; her forefinger ran along the ridge of the tea cup in her hands.

His minute senses were keen enough to notice.

"Do you often find yourself lost in thought?"

She looked up at him and shrugged.

"Nothing wrong with a little personal reflection, is there?"

Hannibal gave her a compliant nod as he stood opposite her; a counter of the expansive kitchen separated them.

He admired her personal construction; a woman of fewer words and many expressions. He preferred it this way. Expressions were often more telling than that of explicit words. Words were malleable – changeable; a woman could lie through her teeth and fool someone with ease. Perhaps not _him_, but another person all the same.

It was much harder to hide an expression. There are too many intricate workings beneath one's facial features that can give away a facade. And while a man has only seventeen telling pantomimes, a woman has twenty working against her.

As such, it was easier to read Scarlett through her expressions rather than her words.

"It's my turn, Doctor Lecter."

He noted the arch of her brow; it was composed of an underlying uneasiness and a spark of angst.

"Beg pardon?"

She pursed her lips together, running the smallest trace of her tongue along the taut, pressed pout.

"It's my turn. I get to ask my question."

The fleeting urge to snatch the trace of her tongue was suppressed. His eyes gleamed.

"I was not aware you wished to continue. But of course, you might ask anything that you'd like."

"I will," she spoke calmly, taking a small sip of the tea cupped between her two hands. She let the steaming cup's rich aroma soothe her. Staring at him, she took in his subtle smile before asking, "Are you angry with me?"

The hint of his grin disappeared into passiveness. His head tilted slightly, "What a pitiful waste of a question, Scarlett. I'd have expected something far more intimate, given what I asked of you."

"I'm sure you would have. But at the moment, I'm more concerned over what's happening between you and I."

He paused briefly at that mention, intrigued by her association, before offering a reply.

"I am not angry with you. Are you angry with me?"

She didn't waste a breath nor a second.

"Yes."

It surprised her when he'd chuckled lightly in response. Scarlett reddened out of both irritation and embarrassment, averting her eyes to the steam wafting out of the cup in her grasp. She was sure her admittance sounded almost childish to his ears. When he responded, his tone was laced with amusement – but there was also something dark etched into the silk-like way he spoke.

"Why be sour towards me, Scarlett, when you know that I am perfectly entranced by you."

She felt the itch of a flush creep at her neck and set the cup down lightly; it was fragile, and still managed to rattle against the countertop.

"That's not a professional thing to say."

"Perhaps. Though you yourself are far from the typical patient."

"You know my _secrets_," she pointed out lightly, biting her lip, "because I was stupid enough to tell them."

He'd drawn them out from her, of course, but didn't feel the need to bring that to her furrowed attention. He was gracious that it hadn't been such a difficult task, figuring out the most prominent details of her background. Everything he had learned thus far served only to ignite his desire to learn more; and as such, watching the gestures and expressions she conveyed from across the counter fueled his craving to devour her.

Despite there being no significant psychological faults within her, he felt she'd make an interesting case study.

"You told them to me because you trusted me. And I have already told you that you have nothing to fear."

She shook her head in argument.

"I have everything to fear. You don't know. What if you harbored some dark secret and someone found out about it?"

He rather enjoyed the irony of such a question.

Admittedly, however, he understood fully where she was coming from. And although through personal experiences he'd managed to deal with the prying interest of people unknowingly overstepping their boundaries by fatal means, he could not extend such advice to her for more than obvious reasons.

He moved around the countertop. He could stand more easily before her form when he did.

In part, it was so that he could better see the plethora of a thousand afflictions written across her face.

"If it would set your mind at ease, I'll swear on it. And I never go back on my word."

She nodded to him, taking in the sparkle of his gaze. He seemed devout –_ sincere_.

She kept reminding herself that he was her psychiatrist. A licensed professional. As well as someone who had shown a keen interest in her.

It seemed almost ignorant to disregard such a person and deny them confidence.

"I believe you."

He beamed at her, allowing one of his broad hands to capture the edge of the countertop beside him as he stood before her. He leaned into it only in the slightest. Perhaps he had the compulsion to clutch something.

It was more of a casual action, Scarlett noted, in regards to the rigid demeanor he usually carried. She took in his gleaming grin and wondered subconsciously what had invoked his manner to shift, even in this slight way.

It was inviting. At the same time, it created tension.

"You mentioned previously, Scarlett, you and I by association."

She bit the inside of the corner of her lips, and threw him another one of her slight nods.

"Might we discuss that?"

It was nothing short of the purr of predator. There was an allure to it.

She breathed in, shaking her head in an attempt to send the blush away, "You're still bent on that kiss," she accused.

Hannibal raised a fine brow. "And you are not?"

"I," she faltered, "I mean – I have been dealing with… other things."

As if they needed to be identified.

She froze when she felt his presence loom closer to her own; their distance closing under his shift.

"Tell me something, Scarlett. Do you ever find yourself dreaming?"

She stopped and thought of the absolute sense of darkness. It was purged of light, much of the time nothing was there. Perhaps it could be considered a nightmare, but she doesn't waste any time reading into it under his watch.

"No. Not really."

"Neither do I. But I_ do_ have imagination - as do you."

The warmth of a pair of hands covered her shoulders in unison. Two sets of eyes merged into one singular gaze.

"What do you see?"

"A risk."

She answered bluntly, even as her form soon became flush against his tailored attire. The friction of the fabric warmed her; her pulse ran fast against it. He could hear the tutting of his voice – velvet in her ear.

"You're not looking properly. More often than not, fears labeled as risks reveal themselves as opportunities."

Hot breath laced her neck; she was certain she could feel the sensation of him taking in her scent.

His lips were against her jaw. She allowed her form to move with his; her back was met with the edge of the firm countertop. Everything else seemed to be occupied by the striking man before her and she felt her unease begin to lessen despite the leap of her heart rate.

She could allow her barriers to fall. Carefully constructed walls could rise back up again were she ever in need of them. She _could_ allow someone else to hold control.

She suppressed her doubt.

"Swallow, won't you?"

It was faint whisper in her ear; the gentle grasp of his hands held steady against her throat – one high and resting just below the jaw while the other lingered above her collarbone.

Were his touch not so intimate, she would've sworn he was set on strangling her.

He relishes the movement of her muscles after her compliance. The taste of her gasp is almost tangible when the soft touch of his lips at the side of her neck turn for an instant into a delicately delivered bite – a mere_ taste_. It is nothing harsh, but it garners the reaction he desires. His mouth moves up to capture hers – to claim any remainder of the uttered gasp still lingering there.

She locks her fingers onto the front of his suit; the expensive lapels serve as something for her to clutch.

While one of his hands remains at the nape of her neck, another arm encircles her waist. The tips of his fingers press into the skin at her side, messaging gentle circles with a nimble and skilled touch.

When he presses himself more firmly against her, she is well aware of the barrier he has created. The counter behind her holds her steady, for which she is thankful. It's too difficult to ignore the sudden weakness she feels under his touch. More importantly, she can feel his arousal pressing against her; also proving hard to overlook.

Her bottom lip swells, as that is what he pays the most attention to. She shivers when he breathes flush against her cheek – carnivorous teeth grazing the skin in a slow, sweeping movement as he does so.

"Scarlett."

She melts at the way the hand on her neck travels down the length of her spine.

"I want you here tonight."

She closes her eyes at the purr uttered against her crimson curls, opening them back up again only when she feels he has pulled away from her.

"Say yes, hmm?"

His dark gaze is glinting – she can clearly note the maroon merged within the depths of coloring from the intimate distance. The way those orbs are fixed on hers incite shivers of ache, lust, and weakness.

"Yes."

He cannot help his taut smile from widening by only a fraction. Her skin held the subtle, sweet taste of amber honey. He planned to savor it.


	14. Chapter 14

Maroon orbs had captured her; she couldn't lie to herself in the presence of those eyes.

It would be dishonest of her to deny that she was attracted Hannibal Lecter. Then again, she remembered that her husband was handsome, too. Todd had caught her effortlessly with the ease of a kind, inviting smile. But it was a façade. Only a year passed before that beaming grin of his she'd fallen for had become nothing more than a snarl of jealously and resentment.

The thought shook her as she stumbled backwards up a flight of stairs in wobbly heels. Firm hands incessantly pushing her along; strong arms present to hold her steady and guide her.

Scarlett's blood rushed. As her racing mind tried to align itself with rationality, she couldn't help but think of how easily her refined psychiatrist had managed to catch her, too. It had happened so quickly; the alluring sheen of the Venus flytrap ensnaring the senses of the moth before springing its dreary trap.

_Carnivore._

The word crosses her mind for a mere, fleeting moment.

There was a musk lingering in his bedroom - the transcending perfume of wine. The drawn drapes and dark wash of the linen upon his bed seemed to hearten it. The precisegloom of it all was strangely enticing. She worried that Hannibal was able to perceive the rapid succession of her violently fluttering heartbeat amidst the silence. A light gasp of fear and excitement managed to escape her parted lips as his fingers grazed the bare skin beneath her blouse as he went to lift it. The friction of his widening smile against her alabaster skin sent her pulse racing.

Her back met the wall. Thin shoulders were pressed against the cool paneling and the quirk of the doctor's lips played at her collarbone. She felt a sting that sent rivets of bitter pleasure down her spine when his light touch abruptly turned to small, sensual scratches. She exhaled shakily. The markings of rough caresses would surely remain after this was all said and done – and if he wished to tear and rip at her clothes and ivory flesh, perhaps she would allow him to do so.

Admittedly, she had given him permission with a singular word.

Her blouse was left to lie as a puddle of color on the floor. The curls of her crimson hair were tousled as a result. It was a fiery mane; a source of imagery for the psychiatrist to consider when his eyes found the time to rise from the supple flesh he was currently devout to.

Her hands were on him, leaning into his aura. Hannibal allowed her delicate fingers to push back at the suit covering the slopes of his broad shoulders. The tailored attire clashed against her clothing as it fell and the underlying dress shirt felt like silk against her bare torso. She supposed it was.

"Your skin," he points out, brandishing the trace of his hand over it lightly, "It is nearly translucent."

Silk. His voice was nothing if not silken.

He paused to admire the flush that stained her nearly lucid flesh at his words. The reaction was one of art; one of beauty – this _tinge_ of red. Emotion so openly displayed through blatant physicality was the sort of thing that tempted him; and very few things played at his senses in such a way.

Broad hands captured her own to guide her. Before Scarlett realized it, her back was pressed against the soft dip of a mattress – her skirt was gone; another casualty claimed by the carpet. The exquisite contours of an angular face hovered above her. Eyes swept over her figure; a taut smile of approval was held within them as he appraised her hardly-clad figure. She shivered, but allowed him to assess her in silence.

"You are divine."

She swallowed down a response - it shocked her, being called such a thing. The woman had admitted to murder not so long ago, and now she was _divine_. It was confusing. But she also longed to find solace in those words.

Perhaps he would act as a dark angel, absolving her of her sins.

Pouted lips traveled down the length of her body, inciting an arch from the lain woman. She wanted to move against him – to feel the sharp angles and bones of his form shift against the subtle curves of her soft flesh.

Scarlett moved her hips upwards and drew her hands up to his chest to fumble with the buttons of his dress shirt; she worked clumsily. Scarlett knew she was drowning in her impulse. It surprised her when one of his hands captured her shaking fingers with a disapproving tut. He drew the frail digits up to his mouth and held them against wicked lips, gnawing at her fingertips almost lovingly.

"You mustn't be so anxious, my dear Scarlett."

Her breathing hitches at the soft, sensual growl. "I know… but… you're_ causing _it."

A light flickers across his expression, and he seems oddly pleased with her response.

"Am I?"

The questioning murmur is sickeningly sweet; the sharp edges of canines tear paper cut-thin lines across the delicate flesh of her fingers; she gasps as his tongue flicks against the frail appendages.

"Do you wish for me to stop?"

He can feel her rising pulse against his tongue.

"No."

He smirks at her, dipping down to snatch her lips with his own – biting upon the swells of red. Scarlett is sure she feels her stomach churn at the metallic taste; but still she melts into his ravenous kiss; his lips and tongue are avid in their attempt to consume her.

She worries that the light traces of blood have left imprints on the silk shirt he tosses to the side; such fine fabric could hardly withstand the stain.

Scarlett's hands caress his chest while his fingers press into her sides, flexing against the lines of her frail ribcage. He outlines them; a calculating gaze admiring their structure. He compares them to a sparrow's bones.

He knows he could break them all with the ease of a rough caress.

He doesn't.

Hannibal prefers the dark marring of his fingertips littering her pale skin; leaving their impression. He would like them to remain for quite some time though he hasn't decided on how long. He finds her appealing; he contemplates keeping her.

He can feel her incessant arches – he relishes the soft whimpers he earns from her; his hands, lips, and_ teeth_ are skilled; he presses his arousal to her and enjoys the way her fragile hands attempt to capture his hips to keep him in place.

The man obliges her. Usually Hannibal prefers to draw out his actions with patience and precision; much like the strokes of a brush to a canvas. But he finds her hesitance-turned-impatience almost endearing, and allows her to release him.

She brushes his member with delicately working hands, inwardly pleased with herself when she is able to elicit the slightest of vocal responses from the collected, yet aroused, man above her - to hold some form of control over the bites searing the skin of her breasts as he nips and licks at her. A free hand traces upwards over the sensitive skin of her thighs before he strokes her through thin, damp material - pushing it aside with skilled fingers. Dark eyes dart up to her expression. Hannibal admires how desperately she attempts to collect herself; he supposes she does so in an attempt to match his own expertly held façade.

He wants to do more than _test _that expression; he challenges her, he wants to break it; the length of his member pressing against her causes green eyes to glimmer.

Painted fingernails claw into satin sheets and she swallows a low scream at the quick entry – the warmth of his body is sweltering hot in comparison to her own. His skin burns against hers like an ember; his breathing caresses her skin like tendrils of scorching smoke when he leans over her, thrusting rhythmically. He buries his face in her neck – nuzzling her; taking in the sounds of her gasps and moans from the close proximity. The vibratos of her vocalizations are pleasing to him, and he licks at the contraction of muscles to urge her on.

Scarlett has experienced pain and pleasure before, but never simultaneously. Not in this way. Not in the way that the burn of his hand twisting into the hair at the nape of her neck is masked by the bliss she feels from having him inside of her.

It bothers her, because she has been hurt before. But it also thrills her.

She doesn't feel trapped when his body collapses against hers; she acknowledges the warmth and is content with it. He remains there, gazing into her expression.

She is unsure what her eyes give away. She can't read his.

Hannibal isn't put off by her quiet demeanor – physical reactions and expressions are more intriguing to him, anyway, and he is still able to _see _her.

He is not full. He keeps an arm around her, and coos pleasantries against her flesh.

"Goodnight, Scarlett."

He wishes she would have said his name.

* * *

Scarlett experienced a dreamless sleep.

She is sore.

Reality hits her with the opening of jade orbs. Sunlight had spilled into the room, illuminating the darkness of the prior evening. A heavy haze lingered over her head as she turned to the side, barely taking the time to note his absence before he entered through the doorway; an impeccable suit adorned and a medical case in hand. He smirked lightly at her.

"Ah. Good morning, Scarlett."

_Here to mend and tend_, she mused inwardly.

Fingers motioned for her to sit up; in response she threw her bare legs over the edge of the bed but retained her sitting demeanor. Her eyes were fixed on him as he approached until he was kneeling before her with a strip of gauze held in his hand, carefully blotting a particularly harsh cut on her swollen lip. She stiffened at his touch only slightly but held his gaze nonetheless.

Never before had she felt safe and uneasy at once.

He sighed, but kept his passive expression in place. With lips pursed, he allowed a hint of sincerity to linger out from them.

"Did I frighten you at all, Scarlett?"

"You didn't."

She feels she is sincere; a bit of her still remains unnerved.

He pauses. He seems slightly unconvinced with his pout unmoved. Still, he tilts his head to the side and allows his dark gaze to capture her jade orbs for only a moment before returning to the swell of her lips.

"Please do not lie to me. I can sense that you are bothered."

She is quiet as he dips a free hand into the medical bag, drawing out a capsule. He extends it to her, "Here."

It rests lazily in the palm of her hand.

She'll wait for tea.

"You told me I wasn't ready for a relationship. Do you still think that?"

A frown crosses his angular features and he sets aside the cloth at her cut to cradle the side of her face with a warm hand. His touch is meant to reassure her – to alleviate her fears. It is practiced.

"Is that what is troubling you, darling Scarlett? Feeling uncertain?"

She shrugs her shoulders lightly, "Maybe. I don't know. Is this what this is - a relationship?"

His smirk is subtle, as is the arching of a fine brow,"Would you object to such a thing?"

It isn't an outright answer, but she shakes her head by only a fraction.

"I know I've already said this, but… it's just that you're my psychiatrist. _My FBI appointed psychiatrist_."

He chuckles lightly at her clarification, bringing another hand up to cup the other side of her face in an attempt to hold her steady – her eyes are focused and sincere, her lips tremble with anxiety and desire.

The kiss he gives her is chaste, affectionate even; a mere shadow of the kisses he'd given to her the night before, as they are far from harsh. He doesn't draw back; he speaks against her mouth with a wry smile in place.

"It is all the same. I can provide you stability as both your doctor and lover. I hope that you will allow it."

Her mouth quirks at how he_ asks _her, as though she is some precious, fragile thing. She doesn't want to see herself that way. She doesn't want_ him _to see her that way either. But she wants him to see her differently – and maybe she can change the way he sees her with time. He already claimed to adore her, despite her faults, which genuinely shocked her. And it didn't help that Scarlett felt as though the articulate man before her could have _anyone_.

She closes her eyes to block out the thought, pressing her lips back to his on impulse; jealousy isn't common of her, but the thought of him having someone else provokes her.

"I'll_ allow_ it," she all but hisses lightly, pushing against him, "Are you free for the morning?"

He leans back to look into her line of sight, another light laugh escaping his taut lips as he shakes his head. "Our mutual friend, Jack Crawford, insists that I come in today for a consultation."

"I have nothing to do anymore," she points out factually, shifting a bit before asking, "And I'm guessing I couldn't come with you."

"Though I would thoroughly enjoy your company, Scarlett… I am not sure that would be appropriate given the circumstances of the case. And of course, our newly developed relationship should also be considered."

She purses her lips, but nods. He lifts her chin up with the tip of his forefinger.

"Allow some time to pass first, hmm?"

She licks her lips, nodding once more, "It's fine."

The corner of his mouth quirks up a bit further, and she grants him a small smile in return.

"I'll cook for you this evening. We can talk about whatever you'd like."

"No."

She shakes her head; he tilts his in confusion.

"You can come to my house. I'll cook for you. And we can talk about whatever_ you_ like."

She refuses to be completely swept away by his charm. Not twice, at least. And she'll prefer it this way, having the comfort of a familiar environment around her. This would be the _simplest _way for her to begin.

He remembers her kitchen. He remembers the spices, and the Chianti.

He'll take a bite out of curiosity. The image of her cooking makes him smirk.

He wonders if she's any good before dipping his head to her.

"Very well, Scarlett."

Both smile against the warmth of opposing grins – their motivations differ.

But attraction is their commonality.


	15. Chapter 15

"_Psychopaths are not crazy. They are fully aware of what they do and the consequences of those actions."_

* * *

Dark circles plagued the tire-induced lines beneath Will Graham's eyes.

"You haven't slept again, Will?"

He dipped his head at the sound. His tired gaze connected with his psychiatrist for only a moment before he brought his hand up to rub at the side of his face. He hoped the motion itself would help to wake his weary skin. Will's sleep pattern had dispersed itself into spurts of no more than thirty minute intervals. Each and every time they were broken by a strained gasp and he awoke with a mask of sweat.

And then there was the sleepwalking.

The blonde man noticed his counterpart's slight cringe at the thought.

"You know that. It's, uhm – getting _better, _though."

Hannibal doubted him. But he didn't vocalize his doubt, instead deciding to regard him in silence and watch with transfixion as the muscles beneath the skin of Will's pale features struggled to remain attentive.

Both were alerted by the rumbling, authoritative tone of a clearly agitated Jack Crawford.

"Doctor Lecter. Will."

Will Graham all but shuffled into the office, hair rumpled and glasses askew on the curve of his nose. Hannibal's strides reflected his pristine posture as he followed in behind the shorter man.

The work-battered desk was littered with photographs; pictures of what weredefined to be grotesque. They acted as visual documentation for an ongoing massacre. Will took them in with unease while Hannibal adopted a look of calm contemplation. He recognized a number of the victims of this make-shift murder collage. Names eluded him, of course, but many of the bodies reflected his craft.

His artwork was often signed in blood.

"Thirteen bodies so far. All of which were found within the state lines of Virginia, West Virginia, and Maryland. These last _two_," the head of the behavioral science unit gestured to a pair of photographs, "were discovered within the past week."

Hannibal's eyes flickered over them. He remembered – it hadn't been long at all.

_A rabbit in the woods, with a thorn in its side._

_A quail with a broken wing, perching beneath a highway. _

Will's eyes had closed; not out of tire, but of grim empathy and thought.

Hannibal pursed his lips at Jack's forced-patience, notable by the taut crossing of his arms. During the strained silence, the psychiatrist ran a finger over one of the Polaroids and hid his internal admiration. Though the bodies that he himself had not slain lacked his particular measure of creativity, he had to admit that he could appreciate the endeavor of a lackluster killing.

He knew the other killer. He knew how his mind worked.

He also felt that his former patient was making progress.

"Their methods are…similar. Not the same."

Will Graham was breathing shakily but was attentive once more. Jack uncrossed his arms.

"Their_._ How many are we dealing with, Will?"

"Two. _Maybe_ three."

He shook his head as if it would help him gain clarity.

"I can't be certain. These first ones… Kelsey Goodwin and Elizabeth Greene, they were really sloppy. It's like they were just test runs, but there's a _progression_. The guy learned from his mistakes and he wanted to be more efficient. Obviously, considering the organs… he didn't just want to waste them, and he got smart about it."

"But you see a distinct difference. How do you separate them?"

Hannibal looked at him curiously. Will shrugged off the two men's stares and hesitated before scrunching his nose up a bit.

"The ones dealing with attempted preservation aren't even in the same_ league _as the two most recent ones," his eyes fell back to the pictures on the table and away from the men.

"These are like works of art. Collectively… they're carefully constructed stars to van Gogh's portrait. The others don't fit his design."

It was then that Will separated the photographs in silence, lost in thought, ignoring the blatant looks on the other faces in the room with him until the monstrous collage was replaced by two columns. His fingers fidgeted throughout the entire process, scrutinizing the cuts, lacerations, and means of death for each victim as he eyed the glossy stills before carefully pushing each article to either the left or right.

"It's… not definitive."

Hannibal resisted the urge to swallow.

It was impressive. He himself was impressed by how easily the young agent could understand_ his_ design. Because the separation was certainly definitive, and his severance of the pictures entirely correct.

He licked his lips. The dryness of the office piqued them.

"You are able to tell such a thing simply by these photographs, Will?"

The brown-haired agent shrugged at Hannibal. He didn't think it mattered. He'd seen most of the bodies before.

"Like I said… it's not exact. But these ones," he pointed to the right row of pictures, "are definitely the Ripper's work."

Hannibal nodded. Jack did the same, then cleared his throat.

"Beverly Katz is in the lab right now with the newest victim. Go down there and find out if you can _see _anything else. I'll put these columns on file."

* * *

It wasn't necessary for Hannibal to accompany Will down to the labs.

He had an interest to do so if only just to witness once again a glimpse of Will Graham's troubled mind working to piece together a puzzle. But he lingered outside. Despite the establishment of trust throughout their sessions, Will Graham still preferred to not be _chaperoned_ all around the Bureau.

At least not when it wasn't due to a direct order of Jack Crawford.

Hannibal supposed the boundary was a necessity for Will, and so he allowed it, even though he had the strongest of urges to break through it.

He felt a similar urge with many people.

It was a symptom of manipulation.

* * *

_He'd only been practicing for a year. Despite the quick recognition he received with the publishing of his journals and case studies, it had been an exceedingly boring one, at that. _

_He accepted new patients out of pure tedium, and to his surprise he was pleased to have the boredom suppressed by a purely psychotic personality. The most interesting of them all remained fixed across from his person for the entirety of nine months, before a clean break was made._

"_People have their reasons… for doing what they do."_

_Hannibal Lecter eyed the man sitting across from him. His hair was thick and dark, much darker than his own. He was on some board of trustees, having previously held a position as a hospital administrator. Martin, he preferred to be called; and Martin was well put-together that afternoon and adorned in a tailored suit with silver-plated cuff-links. _

_His head was relatively level. He was not the type that one would think needed to seek therapy, much less the sort of person who appeared psychotic. But Hannibal Lecter had seen straight through him in a matter of minutes. _

_Similarities played a part in it. Naturally, Hannibal was quick to read people. It only seemed logical that he notice the flaws in the man before him after spending so much time constructing his own person-suit._

_When he drew out the truth from him many sessions ago, he worried the man would flee, even with his insistent claim that he would not involve the police._

_Confidentiality aside, the goal of these sessions was to aid the patient, after all. _

_To his pleasure, he came back, slightly perturbed but not without lacking the essence of relativity and calmness towards the idea of murder. He understood fully what he was doing, and his distress did not stem from the actions he committed. He planned to continue with them – the murders. _

_Hannibal felt a bitter sense of alignment. He wasn't sure if he wanted to gnaw away at the loose ends, string them along, or coax them into something more severe. He wasn't fond of dabbling in dangers, yet he yearned for entertainment._

"_Why it is that you choose to do these things, Mr. Mercer?"_

"_Martin."_

_Hannibal corrected himself, for the sake of the man before him. "Martin."_

_He stared for a moment before setting his gaze to rest on the desk behind the good doctor. Hannibal prodded him._

_"It is not as if you are simply hungry."_

_The man's mouth quirked up a bit, as if he could detail the humor in his psychiatrist's muttered accusation._

"_No," he replied calmly, "No. I don't think that's it. Why don't you tell me?"_

_Hannibal strived to maintain his clinical stature, raising a brow and splaying his fingers against one another in front of him._

"_You are very passive, Martin. Though I believe what lies beneath is far more… ravenous. You murder to quell that hunger. Then you consume your victims to parch your thirst - quite literally at that."_

_They both took a moment to breathe in the explanation. _

"_That doesn't worry you? You can take that without a grain of salt?"_

_Their impassive postures were reflective of one another. Hannibal brought a hand up to rest underneath his chin, continuing with his examination._

"_Your crime would be distasteful to most. I won't view it as an atrocity. I can understand your reasoning – your plight." _

_Martin scoffed lightly, the curtest of smiles gracing rugged features that contrasted harshly with his pressed attire._

"_If you understand my reasoning then you understand what I'm capable of. What if I chose to attack you, considering what you know?"_

_Hannibal narrowed his own features, but adopted a small smile to match his counterpart in order to soften the threat rising from the chords of his throat._

"_I would prefer to remain in your good graces, though I do not take well to threats, Martin. Should you choose to do such a thing, rest assured that I am fully capable of both disarming and dismembering you."_

_Two pairs of eyes glinted into one another._

"_Is that right?"_

_Hannibal 'hmmed' his reassurance. _

"_Besides, it must feel somewhat nice to be able to confide in another willing to keep your secret, yes? You have an oblivious family."_

"… _I don't want to talk about my family."_

_Hannibal merely shrugged his suited shoulders._

"_Pity. I wondered if your most intimate feelings of hunger extended towards them."_

"_They don't. I am more or less selective when it comes to what I'd like to eat."_

"_In accordance to what is lean? What is ripe?"_

"_Yes." he pauses, "I have a preference. Even though I'm utterly insane."_

_The psychiatrist's tone was challenging, disapproving really._

"_You are not crazy, Martin. You know exactly what you are doing. Whether or not I agree with the way your mind works is ultimately inconsequential."_

_Most of their sessions continued on in the same manner. A calm 'Q&A' dealing with the topics of murder, cannibalism, and the subconscious. Hannibal felt compelled to crush the impassive features of the psychopath across from him on more than one occasion, but exercised his restraint for the good of the conversation. _

_He was not drawn to his flesh, nor was he entranced by his persona. _

_In fact, he found Martin to be quite rude; it was a characteristic that worked against him. Hannibal wished that wasn't the case. Even he knew the absence of a clear conscious was no sort of excuse for impolite behavior; he himself was nothing if not refined._

_A month passed. Hannibal read the papers – he noted the discovery of a new body that differed from his own killings. The author's focus on the body's extensive loss of organs compelled him to believe the work was Martin's._

"_How are you killing your victims?"_

"_Quickly."_

"_Mercifully?"_

"_Efficiently."_

"_Ah."_

_Hannibal knew Martin didn't care for the person – the condition of the meat was all that mattered. He would splice open the sternum of a victim without a second thought of their still-blinking in shock expressions if only to obtain the raw ingredients from within. He would leave them there to lie, afterwards. To rot. It wouldn't do. _

"_You are making a mess. You shouldn't be so reckless."_

"_Is this a lecture or do you plan on offering a suggestion?"_

_Very rarely did he offer his patients a smile that revealed the whites of sharp canines, but that inquisition prompted him. And he offered his suggestions. And he admired the way his patient's carelessness gradually decreased over time._

* * *

Will Graham stumbled out of the room, throwing his head back and tossing several capsules of relief onto his tongue. He swallowed harshly. Hannibal approached him, jacket draped elegantly over an angled arm.

"You didn't have to stay."

"It wasn't an imposition. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Will managed a strained chuckle, shaking his head from side to side as he began to walk, "Oh. I'm tired… of these bodies. Other than that, just fine. You?"

Hannibal gave into the deflection, sighing.

"Well as always, Will."

* * *

Scarlett Sage hadn't allowed a real smile to play at her lips for nearly a year - up until that morning at least. It had stayed with her throughout most of the day until she found herself stirring a sauté of mushrooms in wine. She stared down at it with a heavy frown.

The redhead had suggested the idea of her cooking for him all too quickly in the hopes of gaining a bit of an upper hand. Then she remembered his fine meals and suddenly felt overly self-conscious.

She cursed herself aloud.

She cursed for a second time when she heard the obscenely early ring of her doorbell.

Hannibal's expression was tinged with amusement as he took in the apron-draped, perplexed figure answering the door. She all but scoffed at him. It amused him further.

"What are you doing here?"

"Was I not invited to supper?"

"You're so _early_, though."

He grinned further, stepping in when she reluctantly stood to the side of the doorway, allowing him room to enter her home.

"I apologize, but I was already in town. I wouldn't mind assisting you in the kitchen."

She feigned a smile. She felt the flicker of nerves eat away at her.

Hannibal cocked his head to the side, glancing down her form and noting streaks of food marring the checkered pattern on her long apron. She'd probably flung something on herself in haste. He wondered if she'd done it out of surprise when he rang her door.

"What is it that you are cooking, Scarlett?"

She paused, then turned on her heel and motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen, where the smell was much more prominent. Scarlett's newly manicured nails gestured softly to the simmering pots and pans on the stove.

"Sautéed scallops, mushrooms, and wild rice."

He smiled approvingly, and she blushed lightly.

Her strides took her to the breakfast bar, where a cutting board and knives were splayed out, "I've still got to cut up the vegetables for the salad, though."

"Allow me."

She shook her head, "I've got it."

Hannibal watched her work with interest; the stainless steel of the blade seared through the flesh of tomatoes and cores of onions. She wasn't a fool with a knife, though he worried for her when he noticed the minute shakes of her thumb and forefinger upon the blade. It escalated when she felt the warmth of his body crowd behind her, and he glanced over her shoulder towards the cutting board.

He could feel her shoulders tense against his chest and her hands stopped their movements; the knife remained limp in her hand.

"Continue, Scarlett. I am merely admiring your technique."

"Oh," she muttered unsteadily, forcing her hands to continue their practiced motions. "I doubt mine is as good as yours."

"Practice makes perfect, of course."

She made a small noise of agreement as she continued to cut up the remainder of a red onion before chopping at a cucumber. She felt broad hands encompass her lightly trembling ones in the middle of her onslaught.

"You are _massacring _an innocent vegetable," his purr heavy against her neck.

"The cucumber had it coming."

He chuckled against her; the vibrato of his chest warmed her.

She licked her lips and wanted to laugh, but the motion of his hands guiding her own lowered the vocalized response to a minor, agreeable sound. She melted into his touch when he nipped at her neck with a taut smirk.

"You mustn't play with your food. You'll hurt yourself."

_He made it so entirely easy. _

Scarlett sighed at the friction of his teeth grazing her earlobe; allowing herself to release a breath as he diverted his eyes back to the cutting board, moving her hands with his own.

"Hold the blade like_ this_. Position your forefinger along its length," his instruction a sensual hiss – or at least, she thought of it as such.

It was hard to decipher with _that _accent lingering alongside her jaw. She did as he said.

"Precisely."

Scarlett repeated the motion with his guiding hand. His touch was slightly calloused; rough, but gentle. It was hard to pinpoint what he used such hands for.

Hannibal released his instructing hold on her and allowed his fingers to outline the curve of her waist; he played at the loosely tied bindings of her apron and busied himself with the flesh of her exposed neck and shoulders. His dark gaze didn't waver from her hands as they continued to work on a carrot.

She attempts to regain some of her composure as he nuzzles her affectionately, the musk of her perfume and the sauté of wine and food simmering on the stove having had merged into a scent he found entirely delectable.

"This isn't really what I had in mind when I invited you over for dinner, you know."

He breathes her in more fully, whispering words into a mess of crimson locks.

"But you enjoy it, yes?"

Scarlett smiled, arching herself back against him on impulse when the sweep of his tongue ran across the length of her neck.

"Obvious, isn't it."

"Endearingly so, darling Scarlett."

He bit her upon thought. Her elicited gasp was the result of the slip of her fingers, however, which his maroon-tinted eyes caught with ease.

"_Shit!_"

The knife clattered upon the wooden tabletop and her free hand went to cradle the afflicted finger. Hannibal spotted subtle blood droplets leaving their mark upon the rich color of the wood and his stomach tightened with restraint.

She hissed when his hand captured her own, wincing at the chill air that burdened the wound.

"I'll just run it under a tap – "

Scarlett is hushed by the kiss that wraps around the wound; his orbs hold hers.

His nostrils flare, but he doesn't allow his eyes to close.

The woman isn't sure how to feel. Still, her blood rushes in a way reminiscent of their previous night together.

She is torn between admiring the way his lips move over her skin and the uneasy feeling of his tongue coaxing the accidental affliction of the sharpened knife.

The smell of something broiling over merged with the scent of blood and meets his senses. His gaze grudgingly tears away from her softened eyes and is stolen by the stove top.

He lets her frail digit drop. He offers her a napkin.

"Let us not let dinner go to waste, Scarlett."

She allows him to dish the plates. She allows him to pour the wine. She allows him to do all of the things she had planned to bestow upon him; but he'd swept in with grace and stolen her initiative with ease and suavity.

They settle opposite one another at an intimately-sized table, and he offers her a smile.

"_I look forward to tasting the fruits of your labor."_


	16. Chapter 16

"_You see a lot, Doctor. But are you strong enough to point that high-powered perception at yourself? What about it? Why don't you look at yourself and write down what you see? Maybe you're afraid to." - SOTL_

* * *

He watches.

Conscious of the mask he wears, he fits it and wears it well. He is inviting.

Despite the nerves that tore away at her at first, Scarlett began to feel at ease with the man dining with her. Her injured digit was irate as she handled the silverware. To her appreciation, his affectionate demeanor and incessant compliments on her no more than fair cooking warmed her to the point of alleviation, and she no longer felt neither the figurative or literal sting of anxiety.

She found his manner of savoring wine, food, and company overwhelmingly charming. It was as if he indulged all of his senses at once. It was a recollection – dinner had passed.

"How have you been feeling?"

Lost in thought, she blinked away her distance. Crimson locks moved with the shake of her head, and she smiled slightly at him from her setting. She had propped herself onto a couch. He sat opposite her in an armchair, and though deemed for comfort he sat with his back straight while holding a glass of wine in hand.

"I promised we could talk about what you wanted… but you're_ not_ supposed to be my psychiatrist right now."

_He couldn't agree more._

His own smile was quaint and he allowed himself a sip of the burgundy liquor, brushing the quirk of his lips with his tongue afterwards. He appraised the den with a sweep of an adept, animalistic gaze. But then Hannibal seemed content to lie to rest his attention on solely her – noting nothing else of even minor interest.

"I suppose considering the circumstances of our relationship that I might accidentally allow the margins to muddle from time to time. But of course, my concern isn't entirely clinical – you_ are_ feeling alright?"

"Better than ever."

"Exaggeration isn't necessary."

The woman's laugh is light and Hannibal chuckles in reflection - mirrors her.

"No. I do mean it. Thanks for coming."

He tilts his head at her unnecessary expression of gratitude. Hannibal studies the curve of her smile and the whites of her teeth, and she is an admirable sight.

"It is a true pleasure to see you smiling this often."

"What? From over there?"

The inquisition is laced with another smile. She prompts him and crosses her legs as she moves to make room on the sofa, "Sit next to me."

"Or," without a blink, he counters the redhead's suggestion, "you could sit next to me."

Pink creeps up her neck as she eyes him.

His form reclines steadily into the armchair and he sets the crystal glass on the table beside him. There is a glint of amusement held within those dark spheres, targeted towards her half-agape mouth. She notices, and allows her painted lips to fall back into place.

"But there's no room," she accuses.

"I will accommodate you."

At his words she scoffs, a glimmer of a laugh hidden there.

"Well isn't that a courtesy."

Raising a brow, she uncrosses her legs and walks over to him. He admires the sway of her figure as she moves; it is prominent even without her trying.

She stumbles - shocked when his hands abruptly snatch her own.

The movement is so quick that her vocal reaction is caught in her throat. Thrown off balance, she expects that she will topple unceremoniously on top of him, but then is reminded of his ever-present attention to precision. He is careful with her, and settles her upon his lap so that they are facing one another.

"This is comfortable, yes?"

Hannibal says this with a grin. She swallows, smiles softly and feels inclined to agree.

"Yes."

His fingers trace up her forearms. They scratch lightly back down again, inciting small bumps over the chill of ivory skin.

"Given your permission, I would like to engage in something a bit more… risky, tonight."

Green eyes widen in surprise. With a smirk, he takes in the newest combination of her fervent flush and paling features.

Hannibal is unable to stop from gingerly placing a hand over the swell of warmth upon her cheek. When she speaks, he feels the muscle of her jaw flex against his hand.

"I… what do you mean risky?"

His lips quirk. He wonders when her apprehension will fully dissolve.

"I would much prefer to show you, rather than quell it with explanation."

She bites her lip. The redhead does not want him to leave... for him to turn away from her rising trepidation. Glancing down at the cut at her finger, she is reminded of his actions. He is so darkly soothing. It's almost impossible for her to understand the combination.

"I understand your hesitation Scarlett. I won't hurt you."

He reads into the lines marring her forehead and she looks back at him. His Lithuanian tongue prods her on.

"Do you trust me?"

Inhaling, she shifts her hips, pressing herself against him more fully. And she imagines she needs someone to trust.

"I said we can talk about whatever you want. We can do whatever you want to do, too."

He is pleased to hear it.

In the back of his mind, he hears a metallic click. He wonders what sort of incense linger in her bedroom - he prefers something with a musk. He ponders the environment a floor above, the one he has already visited, and notes within his mind the bare emptiness that plagued it. It would suit him.

He holds her delicate features with a singular hand and pulls her into a kiss.

* * *

_Love._

_It had been on his mind for quite some time. One of the many topics of psychological behavior he had been keen on studying, he knew full well that love was inherently a compassionate and empathetic emotion. It was his responsibility to be able to detail the sentiment of love and identify it within his patients and case studies. But brushing up from time to time on research within the New England Journal of Medicine simply did not suffice. _

_Unfortunately, to know something well one must experience it. All of the studies in the world could not act as a substitute. And though he had had lovers in his past, he did not experience the sensation of love itself within such brittle and short-lived relationships. Though inherently forward-thinking and exceptionally intelligent, his shortcomings were apparent in his ability to empathize with foreign emotions. It irked him – his personality would not allow nor deal well with such inadequacy. _

_He was pleased when given the opportunity to reflect upon someone else. Someone like him. He could question his parallel and gain insight into what kept gnawing at him. _

"_Love is a force of nature. It is natural. Do you not love your wife?"_

_Martin scoffed, running a splayed hand against the side of his face before taking to resting his hand under his jaw, appearing amused and shielding conflictment – his expression was comprised of both a smile and frown. _

"_We have our issues."_

_Hannibal shrugged his shoulders, glancing to the side and then back into the direct stare of his patient. His words were dismissive._

"_Surely you are aware, everyone does."_

"_Not like we do. And don't even think about asking me how that makes me 'feel'."_

_Hannibal inhaled sharply, releasing a sigh before pursing his interest._

"_At the moment the only feeling I am curious to finding out about in your case, Martin – is love."_

_Hannibal saw the appeal to analyzing someone with similarities that matched him. Even if Martin Mercer remained oblivious to the fact of what Hannibal Lecter really was, the conversation could still go on. As a psychiatrist he could assume whatever point of view he could manage. This one was all too easy. Hannibal had convinced himself that it was sheer fortune that this personality had wandered into his well-constructed and tailored lair. There was no need for him to change as much in these sessions as he did with others. Piqued interest didn't have to remain smothered under rules and fears of discovery. _

_It was the highlight of his week, to be able to sit across from a psychotic, murdering cannibal. Like staring into some sort of distorted mirror._

_He took advantage. In spite of a sharp and aggravated tongue, he admired how quickly Martin's passive mask could fall back into place. Like his. Martin outlined the arm of a chair with calm fingers, appraising the fabric._

"_I fed her human ribs three weeks ago. Not my sort of food but she's from Birmingham – heart really lies with southern cuisine. She raved about them ever since, and I'm sure the next time I kill someone… I'll make those ribs for her again."_

_It was some sort of twisted endearment. At his words, the corner of the psychiatrist's mouth quirked upward minutely. Hannibal thought about his own palates. He thought of countless dinner parties and how serving the delicacies of his kill made him feel – made him stir. _

"_Do you plan to prepare them for her satisfaction, or yours?"_

"_It can't be a bit of both?"_

"_It can. Though one must be more prominent than the other."_

_Martin remained unphased, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth three times in unison before speaking up once more. _

"_Let me tell you something about Christine. I demean her and she allows it. That's how it works. I figure I love her for that. I haven't had the urge to kill and eat her – never crosses my mind."_

_Hannibal considers that. His mind conjures up an image of control and submission. _

"_In what way is she demeaned?"_

_Another light silence, and Martin shrugs his shoulders.  
_

"_In every possible way. The food thing is indirect, but when it comes to something she has a choice about… she does what I ask of her. Everytime, too."_

_Hannibal cocked his head, letting his observation play at the tip of tongue._

"_You love her in the sense that she incessantly bends to your will."_

"_That's one aspect of it... but I can't fully explain it… the last time I checked, there was no universal definition for love."_

"_There are variations, branching off of the norm."_

_There was a pause; Hannibal took in the rise of Martin's stone-faced demeanor, it was as if he was edging him on to continue. Hannibal did so with no reluctance. _

"_People with psychopathic tendencies do not love the way in which society perceives normal. There is a lack of genuine empathy – but the passion felt is real, though often sporadic. As such, most of these relationships end on the basis of the person carrying psychosis feeling jaded within their relationship. Remaining married is an impressive feat."_

_Martin scoffed. "– that's because I'm not exhausted with her. I care for her. I couldn't have a better set up."_

_Hannibal posed to the passive man before him a scenario. _

"_If she knew about what you do she would change. And that would surely alter her perspective of you and your perspective of her, wouldn't it? She would not eat your food. She would not willingly do as you say. You would no longer love her – nor she love you."_

_He paused, allowing the fingers he had steepled beneath his chin to fall to the sides of his chair, " - no longer would she be so keen to treat you as merely a devoted husband, instead of that of a cannibal."_

_The psychiatrist stood. Making his way over to his desk, he leaned his form against it. His fingers brushed against the smooth edge of the wood. He thought about the trails of the hunger that panging away at him. If he could love, it would not last. Not with demons hidden within an unstable, dormant subconscious. Not when there is potential for such darkness to be discovered. _

"_Love is entirely circumstantial."_

_Scratching sounds hiss dully in the silence as he jots something down. Hannibal is not surprised by the quiet demeanor of the man still sitting down; leg crossed over his knee and fingers crossed. Often, when not posed with a direct question he is quiet. He has nothing of importance to say not because he doesn't care, but because he doesn't have the urge; a minor error in personality of a significantly unfeeling character. _

_Hannibal glances at the parchment._

_- Love is circumstantial. It cannot last long for a pair like us. -_

_It would be dangerous to pursue love. Hannibal does not wish to be caught. He won't put himself in the situation. And what interest is love to him, anyway, unless taken in this tainted way? He knows how his actions would be defined, and he is a sadist. _

_He decides he will take what he needs from his relationships, but he will not allow love to take away from him._


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N*****

So you might have noticed that I decided to check out of life for awhile. My lame excuses include that I've been fighting with my family or more so they've been fighting with each other; and also more recently I went to stay at a friend's for awhile and hit my head on the ledge of the roof and gave myself a concussion like an idiot.

The reviews are so wonderful and thoughtful they are almost intimidating. I'm sitting here trying to think of something cool to say back besides "hey thanks for the review" but it's not working out well. I'm sorry if I have not replied to you yet! Also I don't even know what I did with this chapter. I was a bit dizzy when I wrote it but I tried. I'm kind of dizzy now.** Some smut below, little plot. **Thanks as always for reading (:

"Curiosity is the lust of the mind." - Thomas Hobbes

* * *

"_It always comes down to sex."_

_He is straightforward, displaying deadpan delivery at its finest. Hannibal draws in his bottom lip, coaxes it with his tongue in thought, and allows a soft sound of contemplation to escape before expressing his obvious facet of disagreement. _

"_Sex certainly isn't love. It's a biological occurrence. Something entirely physical."_

"_Interestingly enough, I "love" sex. I love it with her."_

_Thin lips pucker. The good doctor represses a tight grin at his patient's crudeness. He isn't thrown off guard, of course; the trick of his tongue is expected. The appendage was more often than not, feisty._

"… _You must also consider lust."_

_With that word, he dismisses the topic of love, flicking through the pages of a journal before extending the paper pad out to the man before him. Martin takes it as his psychiatrist purrs on._

"_Lust is defined as an overwhelming desire or craving. It is not strictly sexual."_

_The pad of Martin's thumb is rough against the bindings of the journal. He eyes it with a raised eyebrow and speaks with monotoned sarcasm back to his analyst. _

"_I'm afraid to ask what you want me to draw, Doctor."_

_Hannibal offers up another smirk and dips his head in inclination._

"_I want you to illustrate lust. The sort of lust you felt when you killed that woman – the lust you felt afterwards when you presented her ribs to your wife."_

_Martin scoffs, tilting his head to the side._

"_Bloodlust, I take it?"_

_There is a small pause. Hannibal all but shrugs his shoulders as if to give Martin free range – the 'this is open to interpretation' is heavily implied. Hannibal diverts his eyes from the passive gaze of the man across from him, stands, and settles behind his expansive desk instead. He looks down, pretending to busy himself with paperwork, and hears the soft scratching of pencil against parchment penetrate the silence of the office. _

_It doesn't take long before he perceives the shift of fabric of another man's suit and realizes Martin has moved across the room, ready to fling his makeshift work onto the desk._

"_I have to go. Board meeting."_

_There is a thud as the journal smacks lightly against the mahogany desk in front of the psychiatrists finger-laced hands. Hannibal eyes Martin with a flicker of displeasure. He prefers to utilize the entire hour; finds it rude that he be told without warning of his patient's early departure. Nevertheless, he tilts his head in acceptance and Martins curtly adds -_

"_I'm not an artist."_

"_That is no matter. We will continue where we have left off next week."_

_They express their calm and near-emotionless 'good afternoons' to one another._

_Hannibal flicks open the journal when he is left in still silence once again, hearing the footfalls of Italian-cut shoes fade away from the outside hall. _

_Only the center of the sheet is utilized, and Hannibal isn't surprised by the lack of artwork upon it. Indeed, he smirks down at the phrase scratched tenaciously upon the page – the shade of the pencil is heavy and dark. _

'_Love begins with an image. Lust with a sensation.'_

_Apparently, there is no need for illustration._

* * *

Tension doesn't afflict her as much as it has in the past. Instead, there is a strange sense of calm that lingers in its place when she takes note of the man's full-detail recollection of her home. He seems to guide_ her_ through it – and before she knows it she hears the sharp click of her bedroom door.

It's different. Months of hearing nothing except for the resounding clack of her heels echoing across wood flooring are finally laid to rest. Someone else is there – someone _knowing_ - and she no longer feels alone. For that reason she can permit herself to be calm; maddeningly calm. A mere presence is comforting and she appreciates him all the more.

Scarlett feels the friction of silk against her skin. Intuitively, a subtle red color rises against it but it is not out of worry. Still, shadowy eyes survey the flush of her neck. Clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth in thought, Hannibal supposes either the woman is running a fever or blushing beyond the point of severity.

"Have you ever experienced this before, Scarlett?"

He means being bound, of course – the smooth fabric wraps itself around the thin bones of her wrists like some sort of serpent.

Pausing to press her lips together, Scarlett shakes her head from one side to the other. Still, her chest rises and falls at a near-steady pace.

As she does so, Hannibal takes in the light inflection of bruises that litter the skin along her collarbone from the night beforehand. He could tell she'd prepared herself for the evening – had chosen to wear something complimentary in favor of it. It would have been inevitable for her to miss the dark blots whilst prepping before a mirror, though the redhead hadn't bothered to cover them up with neither concealer nor fabric. The corners of his eyes crinkle in reminisce of a smile. He is pleased to have marked her, even more so now that she had worn them so well – put them on display.

It was endearing. Perhaps he'd end up leaving another scar, maybe one to mark her heart. He contemplates the manner in which she would bear _that_.

She doesn't retract from the fingers that leave the frail set of hands lingering far above her head, having gone to trace the small inflictions on her neck and shoulders.

"Trust is often instilled and sought through the practice of handing over absolute control to someone else entirely," he explains softly.

Scarlett swallows, gathers up the quaint tone of her voice and smiles meekly up at him.

"What is this, therapy?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps it is also a bit unorthodox."

"You think?"

Her tone is hinted with sarcasm, and he hesitates for a moment before his smirk widens a fraction more. It is almost wolfish; the rise of his sharp cheekbones are elevated by the grinning muscle.

"Allow it a chance," comes the accented persuasion while he brushes a hand against the side of her face "… mixing work with play."

Scarlett lets him work at her clothes. Even allows him to tear, rip and cut. He is clean and careful, just as always, and seems to be almost_ absorbed_ in his task. It is as if his sharp mind has allowed itself to run vacant. He caresses her skin as he would something fragile, perhaps something even stunningly inanimate – she is unsure how to feel about the internal metaphor that flashes across her mind; that of a marionette on strings.

She feels the strong muscles of his thighs rest on either side of her, but the pressed fabric is still there, and she suddenly realizes she is incredibly bare in comparison to him.

Fleetingly, she entertains the now unattainable notion of ripping his tailored-attire clean off.

"What about you?"

The man clicks his tongue at her – rests a heavy hand over her heart, traces the bare skin and incites the burn of friction upon pale flesh.

"Surely you remember - you're relinquishing control, yes?"

She nods.

He tilts his head, speaks matter-of-factly, "Then you needn't worry over a thing."

She would open her mouth to respond, but Scarlett supposes he is right. And he seems adamant, between both his tone and mannerisms.

However, time passes and it's an impulse response to lift her hips when his fingers trace her sex.

"_Hannibal – "_

The splay of strong fingers work against her. She realizes he is more than adept in this area. He attempts to work her like some sort of fine instrument, wishing to coax from her variations of his name in the form of moans and murmurs.

She repeats his name, and he seems to take no notice, having decided to busy himself with the supple flesh below him.

Then she wants to tangle her fingers in his smooth, combed back hair – longs to_ dishevel_ it.

Hannibal feels her slim arms tug wantingly, her torso shifts beneath him and his free hand continues to steady her at the hip. His lips curve into a smile across the soft flesh of her stomach, where soft kisses and undoubtedly more minor scratches are left.

One of the digits pump into her; the sharp gasp she elicits is almost tangible. He can feel her heartbeat has quickened. Hannibal flicks his tongue across her breast. His dark eyes catch her expression to see her furrowed, conflicted features and he watches her _pull_ again. He finds the movement divine – delicious, even.

"I don't _need_ these," she breathes, unsteadily.

The corner of his mouth quirks upward – and he slips another finger into her, pumps her slowly and her breathing hitches.

"I shall be the one deciding that, hmm?"

She makes a noise of distaste at his comment, but it shifts to that of a compliant moan as his hand pushes and moves more rhythmically against her.

"What do you need your hands for, darling Scarlett?"

He entertains her request, the lightest trace of amusement notable – but he speaks with practices seduction. His purr is dark and malicious and could send rivets down the spine of anyone on the receiving end of his inquisition.

"Am I not pleasing you?"

She feels a hot swirl muddle her senses, his low hiss a taunt - a sickening weakness and surge of arousal rises from her, and she attempts to arch herself fully.

_That's nearly as good as a vocal response to him._

All that worries her mind in that moment is the fact that Scarlett wants to _touch_ him – to enjoy the strength and sculpture of his chest and forearms bare upon her skin. Though he seems in no hurry to accommodate her. It is entirely too cruel, and it spikes her fever.

She reaches orgasm after what seems like ages, with his tediously slow movements and prodding which he intentionally chooses to drag out. His whispers are constant and are left to linger upon her marred shoulders after all is said and done. The redhead cannot believe how strained her wrists are when he does away with the cloth binding them together.

Then again, she cannot discredit her pleasure – nor can she discredit the good doctor's skilled hands.

* * *

Hannibal Lecter truly did not sleep much. Six or so hours seemed to suit him. He enjoyed a variety of other luxuries in place of such rest, and in all honesty, he did not feel content to lie across the spread of sheets when he could be doing something he deemed much more beneficial with his time. He traced the curve of her cheek, brushing strands of hair away from her pale features. Half of her face was buried in the pillow she cradled, but the twitch of her nose at his touch did not go unnoticed. He smirked at the pretty, weary thing alongside him.

Unlike Hannibal, Scarlett appreciated the still mornings much more than he did. As such, the dip of the bed was slight as he left her to rest alone.

The man made a cup of coffee, foregoing the tea he preferred in the mornings. The stir of cream and sugar was interrupted by the tone of his cell. He looked at the caller ID with interest. His young agent calling him in the early morning was an oddity, but not unheard of.

Illogical, shaky ramblings made their way out from a distraught throat. Will seemed panicked, more so than usual.

"You are entirely incoherent," the psychiatrist's voice spoke, calm and collected.

"I d-don't know how … I can't _remember_."

"Do you know where you are right now?"

There was a pause and Hannibal heard the slight intake of a trembling breath over the phone line. Hannibal took a sip of his coffee with the allotted time. He heard the practiced response of his agent a moment afterwards, and a dog yelped in the background.

"It's 5:42 AM…. I'm in Wolf Trap, Virginia. My name is _Will Graham_."

The name was spoken in strain, nonetheless Hannibal hummed approval.

"Good," he replies, "… very good, Will."

The agent was quiet for lack of words, but still shaky.

"Tell me what happened."

"Nightmare," he hesitated for a brief moment, "When I woke up… there was blood."

Hannibal bit his tongue at the thought of a blood-splattered Will Graham. Nostrils flared for only a moment, conjuring up a picture in his mind. The metallic aroma is only imagined, but it is sweet and it will suffice.

"Yours?"

Will sighed heavily.

"I must have cut myself on something… I mean I might have been sleepwalking - again."

"Do you require medical assistance?"

"I … I can fix myself."

It isn't much of a challenge, as Hannibal can read between the lines of Will's stubborn, quiet plight with ease. He'll send the unwanted aid whether it is requested outright or not.

"I am coming to check on you. I trust you to stay put until I arrive."

"Doctor_ Lecter_ – " the young agent's voice hangs on the edge of hesitance.

"Nonsense, Will. I would prefer not to argue. I'll be leaving shortly."

The familiar, mumbling noise of Will's reluctance is more than audible before the static of the phone line disconnects the pair.

Hannibal takes another thick sip of the hot brew in hand before heading back up the staircase. He enters, watches Scarlett turn on her side at the creak of the opening door, and he plucks a tie from off of her vanity before sliding it around his neck. Nimble fingers work to form a broad Windsor knot.

"It's six in the morning."

Her voice is heavy with sleep. She props herself up with an elbow reluctantly. Jade eyes capture his, and he smiles lightly.

"Will Graham is in need of my assistance. I will return to you afterwards, if you would like."

Scarlett blinks - pulls the linen up to her shoulders as she sits up more fully.

"Is something wrong?"

"It's nothing disconcerting."

Something in his voice tells her he is being private. He _is_ a private person, she realizes. It doesn't bother her as much as she expects – she is private, herself. When she quiets in response to his closed-demeanor, he tilts his head at her, settling down on the bed beside her a moment later after the knot of his tie has been pulled tight.

Aside from the fringe of bangs masking his forehead, he hardly looks as though he'd slept. Naturally, he appears put-together without hardly any effort.

"Should I come back this afternoon?" he inquires softly.

She bites her lip whilst looking at his own quirked ones, admiring their shape. She welcomes the action of him pressing his mouth to hers, and she cannot help but feel warmed.

She feels safe.

Truthfully, at that moment she prefers for him to stay. But her mind wills her in the other direction – logic superseding the strong emotion of _want_ still avidly pulsing through her veins.

"It's okay. I'll find something to do. You should make sure that Will is alright."

His grin is subtle. The pearl of canines glint and he presses his mouth in parting upon her forehead; she wills herself not to sigh with contentment like some love-struck teen.

"I intend to."

* * *

_I know right wtf did I just read. I waited this long for this – ultimate sigh -_


	18. Chapter 18

There is nothing that I can say that will make up for how late of an update this is. I am offering a thousand apologies… any number less than that wouldn't even begin to cut it. Also I adore every reader, reviewer, follower, and favorite-er. You're all nice people who deserve regularly updated stories and chocolates. Lame transitional plot chapter ahead, but enjoyyy. (:

* * *

Hannibal was pleasantly surprised. The smell lingering in the living room was far sweeter than he had anticipated on the drive over. No sooner had he stepped through the rickety screen door's threshold did he run into a figurative wall cemented with the divine scent; his nose involuntarily lifted upwards upon his entrance, lids closing for a fraction of a second before opening once again. He barely took notice of the few dogs that dared crowd him, sniffing curiously at his polished shoes. And the notice he did eventually extend to them was only in the form of confusion as he glanced down at their scruffy coats, perplexed by how the keen senses of the adopted canines had managed to not become ensnared by the powerful aroma of their master's blood. It practically clung to the walls. He inhaled deeply. _Curious animals_, the psychiatrist thought, holing his tongue between sharp teeth while he surveyed them. Perhaps the pack was simply too adjusted and loyal to take notice of what he did. But he didn't bother to linger on the matter of his patient's makeshift-family. Hannibal had never cared much for dogs.

It took a great deal of strength to maintain his composure as he stepped carefully through the cozy room to meet with Will Graham in the kitchen. The younger man glanced up at him with fatigued blues before looking back down at his cradled appendage. Hannibal followed the gaze, taking notice of the towel secured around his arm. He moved to his side without a word. Will dipped his head and shifted the cloth covering his skin, speaking up in explanation.

"It's not as bad as it looks. You didn't have to drive an hour."

Hannibal didn't argue with him; he simply shook his head and held up a hand at Will's protest to insist upon his silence. Maroon eyes flickered, taking in the ghastly looking abrasion; he fought to keep his clinical demeanor in check as he worked. The cut was deep and the blood continued to drip and blot against the dishtowel. The young agent had taken more than just a spill.

Glinting and pointed, a needle was worked to thread through the gash expertly – held steady by an expert hand. Will winced once or twice but for the majority of the procedure he was quiet and still. It wasn't as if he'd never been stitched up before. Though focused on the task at hand, Hannibal glanced up from time to time in an attempt to meet eyes that always seemed to be wondering off in another direction. It sometimes proved difficult to capture the attention of the empath, so fully engrossed and lost inside the workings of his own mind. Often his mind, twisted and tortured as it was, led him down the most dangerous of paths. This instance hardly proved itself an exception.

"Doubtful, that you incurred this injury from that of a mere fall."

It took a moment for the Will to register the words spoken amidst silence. He had shrugged the shoulder of the arm Hannibal was not intent on fixing in response, "So what's your diagnosis?"

Hannibal didn't look up from his work as the needle punctured the skin once more, following a meticulous pattern. He replied with a level, calm tone.

"Self-infliction."

"I was sleepwalking," the reply came, a bit defensive. Hannibal's tongue took no notice. Instead he remained taut and tranquil.

"I am aware. But there are parts of you that still remain conscious, rationale aside. You are allowing the nightmares to get the better of you," he licked his strange, pouted lips – a quick and inconspicuous action that the agent failed to catch, "Were you imagining one of the murderers in your mind when this occurred? Were you looking through foreign eyes?"

Will shifted at that, gaze falling to the cut on his arm before the good doctor spoke up once again.

"What were you dreaming of, Will?"

"Someone."

"Someone," Hannibal patiently repeated back to him, glancing up to catch the man shaking his head and rubbing the plane of his jaw with a free hand before forcing himself to clarify.

"I mean someone that's obviously not the Ripper. I don't even know who or _what _I'm dreaming of anymore. And all that I _think _I know is that these killers… they have to know each other. At least in some way – there's no way that one wouldn't be conscious of the other."

"Because of their similarities, hmm?"

Will strained his expression, fixing a weak smile on his face as he sarcastically asked, "Well how many cannibalistic serial killers do you think there are around here?"

The blonde chuckled lightly, "I see your point. It is unfortunate, though, having to chase after an additional killer. As if your Ripper alone was not causing you and Jack Crawford enough troubles."

Brunette curls bounced as Will tilted his head, weary smirk still in place, "I don't know. Maybe if we find one, he'll end up leading us to the other."

Hannibal tugged the needle and thread with a little more force than necessary, stealing away Will Graham's tense grin.

* * *

Scarlett let the week to pass by, finding that it seemed to drag. She had little to do with her work behind her and her new relationship with her psychiatrist occurring at a rate of which she would describe as sporadic. Routinely, the redhead had taken to spending the majority of her evenings with him and admitted she enjoyed them. Hell, she wouldn't mind saying that she looked forward to them more than she'd looked forward to anything in a very long time. But even so, her days were long and lousy. And she had discovered quickly that Hannibal was incredibly busy between balancing work on cases and running his own practice.

She wondered if he ever tired. Tire was something she had failed to catch a glimmer of when it came to him. Even easing out of his bed in the morning, he exuded a sense of clarity about him that she couldn't understand but timidly admired. It was hard to ignore his constant vigor, especially while she was the one who sat drowsily on a barstool watching him simultaneously flip an omelet and turn links over in a pair of skillets.

Hannibal Lecter looked immaculate, and it was all she could do not to yawn.

"You cook breakfast _every _morning?"

"That is usually when breakfast tends to occur," he remarked with a smirk, glancing back at her as he worked over the stovetop. She grinned against the piece of toast she'd taken to chewing.

"You do not?" he prompted, turning back to face the range as she shrugged her shoulders, swallowing down the bite of bread.

"Not really. Not since Julie died, anyway."

Hannibal was pleased that he hadn't heard a break in her tone at the mention of her daughter. He had his reservations, but Scarlett seemed to be doing remarkably better than expected when it came to her displacement on the subject; coping mechanisms aside, it was an improvement. He'd even gone so far as to have asked questions about her biological daughter during their previous session and the redhead who sat across from him managed responses that didn't end up tinged with tears. He listened to her continue.

" - even then, it was a lot of Eggos."

He flipped a fair of sausage links onto a plate, raising a brow at her. She mirrored him.

"You know, toaster waffles."

Several lines of puzzlement marring his forehead softened, and he nodded.

"Of course."

She laughed, amused by the fact that he definitely did not know. But when she thought about it, she hardly expected him to. She stared down at the plate he set down in front of her right after; the sprig of mint he'd added for color caught her eye and she fought not to laugh again. Her idea of breakfast loudly contrasted with his. But she still appreciated it.

"Maybe if breakfast started at around noon I could manage to spruce it up as much as you do," the hint of a smile noticeable in her tone carried over to him from across the bar.

"Perhaps you'll grow accustomed to the mornings, the more often that you are here."

"I'm here pretty regularly," she replied.

"But more often would not be discouraged. I realize that by my actions your days and the events occurring within them are rather limited."

Scarlett took a moment to contemplate him, wrapping her lips around the fork, chewing slowly on the savory piece of meat. Hannibal followed her actions and did the same, appearing cool and wholly detached, but she _knew_ there was a level of transfixion there. That there was something on his mind relative to her; and she felt the corner of her mouth turn up at the thought. She couldn't help but feel flattered, as childish as it sounded.

"I am aware that you are far too overqualified."

"For?"

Her tone was insistent, practically cutting him off whilst arching an eyebrow and keeping her subtle smirk in place.

"I've a waiting room void of a receptionist, Scarlett. And if you're at all interested -"

"Be your secretary?"

"Receptionist," he corrected, accent clear and concise as he appraised her reaction. He couldn't help but smirk at her before adding, "You would be doing me a great favor."

Perhaps her days wouldn't end up being so dull, after all.

"I'll think about it."

* * *

"_We're sorry for your loss."_

_It was their job to feel that way, the men delivering the sad news to her doorstep the morning following her husband's death. They handed over Todd's flimsy brown wallet and a card with a number on it that she was supposed to call. Without thinking, she tugged at the knot wrapped around her robe, securing it tightly. The early hours of the morning had been spent in a bathroom, brittle fingers incessantly scrubbing at pale skin with soap and searing water; as a result she felt raw and reddened, but definitely not clean. The redhead didn't even have to feign tears when she listened to them deliver the news. The tears just came – no force of acting was necessary._

_Maybe she'd appeared weak and frail in that moment and that was the reason why the hand of an officer rested upon her shoulder. She wasn't certain. What she was certain of was the fact that she'd nearly jumped out of her skin at the touch. They murmured awkward apologies, she shut the door just as quickly, and then the young woman spent the next hour with her back pressed against the door, slumped down on the floor – her own body a barrier to herself from the outside world. _

_The old woman on the phone was spared the gory details. She was spared the truth. She was simply told the story given to Scarlett on her doorstep. And at the passing on of this story; the conveying of this lie – Scarlett continued to surprise herself._

_When she arrived that evening, her mother walked the room pacing back and forth in pointed heels appropriate for a woman her age. Occasionally she'd stop to silently contemplate something before starting her pace back up again; she went through several cigarettes before she'd even said anything beyond that of a few words here and there. Scarlett, curled against the sofa, was too tired to take notice or feel offended. _

"_Do you think you'll ever remarry, Scarlett?"_

_But at that, the girl narrowed her expression. It wasn't the sort of question a person would ask, or a question a person would be expected to answer. Then again, things were a bit different when it came to her mother and their unique relationship._

"_You didn't."_

_Pursing lightly-painted lips, the graying woman nodded; it was a silent admittance for the truth of the statement, though when she spoke again it was with a heavily patronizing tone. _

"_We're talking about you, dear. And if you're going to have a family – "_

_And just like that, Scarlett felt herself snapping. Just as she had snapped the night before, and weeks before that as well. She stood, eyes glaring daggers across the room._

"_I don't need a husband to raise children," she hissed, cutting off the older of the two._

_There was a slight pause; a mother's mouth left agape at being cut off so abruptly before closing and pressing into that of a thin, taut, and belittling smile. It was an expression she could claim as her own. An expression her daughter knew good and well having often been on the receiving end of it._

"_Well, darling. You certainly do need one if you're expecting any help from the grandmother," she hummed lightly, tilting her head at the use of that name._

"_Well maybe I'm not expecting it. Maybe I don't want it, Mother."_

_Scarlett crossed her arms, slinked across the room, and plucked a cigarette from the pack her mother had brought along. She lit it on the range and brought it to her lips without having to hear or say a word. And all the while the mother watched her daughter enjoy what she was sure to be her first cigarette._

_Scarlett didn't keep up the habit for very long. She flicked one into the ashtray at work while letting her manager know that she'd be gone for good in a matter of days. _

"_Club won't be the same without you. Chicago won't know what hit her the moment you get across the border."_

_She offered a smile as genuine as she could manage at the compliment. _

"_So where you headed off to?"_

"_The coast." _

"_Yeah? There's two of them, you know."_

_He didn't push her for specifics. Not that she would have had much difficulty lying anymore than she already had been. She tilted her head and let that light grin continue to grace her features. She knew what sort of club she worked at, but she tried to believe people when they told her that she'd been the first and only girl there hired for her smile._

"_Whichever one has a better view."_

* * *

Scarlett Sage ends her explanation and answer with a grin and a deflection, insisting to the blonde - _my turn now, Dr. Lecter_.

The day had passed, and the wide, expansive library of an office served as scenery on a Tuesday afternoon. Suited in navy and grey, the psychiatrist was seated across from her, one knee bent over the other. Pen and pad sat alongside at the table nearest him. He smirked at her insistence, "You do realize this is an actual session… not another round of _Quid Pro Quo_ – admittedly a game I assumed you would tire of."

Green eyes flicked upwards towards the tall ceilings and pale shoulders shrugged at the comment. "It seems odd that we're still doing these sessions so… formally."

"Structure is an important part of most sorts of therapy."

"Most," she points out, "and I'd say the majority of our encounters are far from conventional."

He tilts his head at her. It's not as if he can argue. When it came to Scarlett and Will, unorthodox seemed to be the only appropriate descriptor.

"You really want me to work with you?"

Her words are spoken quietly and he looks surprised, and she's shocked herself for having put that expression there.

"Do you still doubt me?"

"I try not to."

And that prompts him. He reassures her, because he knows such reassurance is essential. That's why he crosses the room and finds himself kneeling before her chair before fixing his most genuine expression of warmth and understanding towards the woman before him. He kisses her lightly, asks her once more if she doubts him, and refrains for letting a smug smile widen across his features when he has effectively broken down another barrier.

They agree that she'll start tomorrow; and he is certain that not only is she beginning to trust him entirely – her feelings are on the verge of adoration.

* * *

_Martin,_

_It has come to my attention that we've never once had the opportunity to break bread with one another, and I do think we should consider changing that._

_Warm regards,_

_- HL_


End file.
